


Kyoya Ootori’s Guide to Self-Deception for Fun and Profit

by who_la_hoop



Category: Ouran High School Host Club - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bad Decisions, College Life, Cooking, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Feels, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Happy Ending, Harvard University, Homesickness, Humor, Japanese food, Jealousy, Matchmaking, Misunderstandings, Pining, Romance, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Tamaki still loves Haruhi, Teenage Melodrama, Tokyo Disneyland, basically everyone loves Haruhi, epic obliviousness, interfering friends and family, long distance falling in love, teenage idiots, terrible Bonsai, terrible communication
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:01:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 57,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25209625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/who_la_hoop/pseuds/who_la_hoop
Summary: Kyoya’s fond of Haruhi. Very fond. But he doesn’t dwell on it. He’s far too busy networking at Harvard to think about his best friend’s not-quite girlfriend.Unfortunately, back in Tokyo, Tamaki seems equally busy – on the important task of driving Kyoya mad. Does Tamaki really think Kyoya will wither away and die if he’s not kept updated on Haruhi’s every move?Apparently yes. But Kyoya’s an Ootori. There’s no situation, no matter how annoying, that can’t be twisted to his own advantage.Isn’t there?
Relationships: Fujioka Haruhi/Ootori Kyouya
Comments: 95
Kudos: 222
Collections: Little Black Dress Exchange 2020





	1. The bunny rabbit blues

**Author's Note:**

  * For [doublejoint](https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/gifts).



> This fic is a shameless mix of both anime and manga canon. At the end of the manga, Haruhi wins a scholarship to study abroad for a year in Boston, and the host club follow her there. The story is set when that year is over, and the majority of the host club return to Japan.
> 
> Given that the manga originally had a gloriously flexible attitude to dates and timelines, I have followed that spirit and set this fic now-ish rather than then-ish.

_Cambridge, Massachusetts: Monday, 5.30am EDT_

“FUCK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE!” Kyoya shouts at his bedroom door. Except he’s Kyoya Ootori, so he shouts it on the inside, and instead puts all his effort into the herculean task of reaching across to the desk by his bed and picking up his glasses.

When he manages to shove them on his face without blinding himself, he picks up his phone to prove to himself that it’s much too early to be alive, let alone awake. The backlight prints 05:30 into his eyes, along with dozens of missed-call and LINE notifications, leaving an impression that stays behind when he blinks. The room is pitch black.

_Because it’s half-past fucking five._

Kyoya scrambles out of bed and is unlocking the door before the sick feeling can settle in his stomach properly. It’s a good thing, he realises with groggy annoyance, that he’s not in the habit of sleeping naked. In the hallway is an equally underdressed man who looks even more asleep than he is. Kyoya rifles in his mental filing cabinet: a fellow freshman called Michael Lawson, second son of a real-estate billionaire. Potentially very useful. He forces himself to be polite. Friendly is more than he can manage right now. “Yes?” he says, and by some miracle it comes out in English rather than Japanese.

Michael simultaneously yawns and talks. “So, your dad called me? Said it was urgent and I should wake you up, as you’re not picking up your cell. Parents, huh?” He gives a shoulder shrug which indicates a fellow-feeling Kyoya definitely doesn’t feel. Perhaps this Michael’s father is in the habit of calling in the middle of the night for no reason, but Kyoya’s father only summons him when it’s of the utmost importance.

The sick feeling intensifies for a fraction of a second, before common sense overwrites it. His father doesn’t have this American stranger’s phone number – and even if he did, involving strangers in family problems is not the Ootori way. “My father called you?” he tries dubiously, his brain still creaky with sleep.

Michael scrubs at his eyes. “Yeah. Well, he sounded a little young, but he _said_ he was your dad. I guess the resident dean shared my number or something? Shit, it’s too early.”

There’s only one person who’d have the nerve to investigate his new roommates, find their – undoubtedly unlisted – phone numbers and then _call them up_ when Kyoya didn’t answer his phone.

Kyoya’s going to _kill_ him.

“I’m very sorry. I promise this won’t happen again,” Kyoya says politely, and hopes bribery will help smooth the way out of this sticky situation. It also provides the perfect excuse to avoid the freshman dining hall; whatever morning delights the Berg offers, he’s not sure his stomach is up to it today. “Let me treat you to breakfast before class?”

Michael gives him a half grin. “Sure. I’ll swing by again at half past seven?”

 _Half past seven_. Kyoya hates his life. “Perfect,” he says, and then goes to make the necessary arrangements for Tamaki’s death.

* * *

_Tokyo: Monday, 8.15pm JST_

The phone conversation is quiet enough that Haruhi can’t make out individual words, but it picks holes in her concentration, leaving her staring blankly at her textbook. Her father laughs, and there’s a ghost of an echoing laugh, warm and dry, and—

Haruhi shakes her head hard, as if she has water in her ears, and stares back down at the English comprehension question she’s been non-comprehending for over ten minutes. She’s only been back in Japan for a matter of months, and already her scholarship year in Boston is slipping away like a distant dream, threatening to take all her hard-earned English with it.

And it _was_ hard-earned, she thinks, her eyes sliding over the reading passage. It’s a miracle she didn’t come away worse at English, given that – despite her best efforts – she’d spent the majority of her time abroad being monopolised by the host club idiots. Though, to be fair, once the twins had issued the ‘First Person to Speak Japanese is a Loser!’ challenge – she still thinks Kyoya had something to do with that, despite his denials – they’d all stuck to it, pretty much.

Haruhi is still amazed by quite how much _more_ mischief Kaoru and Hikaru could get up to, when their classmates thought they spoke much less English than they actually did.

She reaches the end of the reading passage . . . and resists the urge to knock her forehead on the table when she realises she can’t remember anything she’s just read. She feels restless and irritable, but she can’t work out why. Maybe it’s the phone conversation itself, although she’s not usually so easily distracted. Maybe it’s the location, although the living-room table is as uncomfortable to work at as it’s always been. She itches to check her phone, although she can’t explain _that_ either. It’s not like she’s expecting any messages other than the usual floods of nonsense from Tamaki and the twins.

She lets out a deep breath she wouldn’t classify as a sigh, exactly, and decides she might as well move on to the questions, rather than fail to read the passage for the umpteenth time. Right. Question 13. _Which of the following phrases best describes the main aim of Reading Passage 1? A) to suggest healthier ways of eating, sleeping and exercising. B) to describe—_

An explosive burst of laughter filters through the – pointedly closed – sliding door to her father’s room, and although she knows she’s _read_ the first part of the question, she can’t remember how it started. Her father’s voice has risen now, in warm, animated complaint, and if she strains, she can hear – or imagine – the man on the other end of the phone, his voice smooth, low and . . .

Haruhi shivers a little, scrambling to her feet and stamping out her pins and needles. Tea is in order. Hot, helpful and . . . loud, she thinks, bashing the teapot about with enough energy to drown out the sounds of the conversation. She doesn’t know why even now, with the eight million yen debt long behind her, hearing Kyoya’s voice still sometimes makes her feel unsettled and on edge, as if she’s waiting for . . . something.

Well. She can’t think _what_. When she tentatively raised the subject with Mei, her friend just rolled her eyes and said she was _obviously_ just waiting for Kyoya to say or do something patronising, because he was a rich guy with an overdeveloped ego. And yes, that’s true – but only in the same way it’s true of all her Ouran friends, and hasn’t she put up with them for long enough to be used to that?

Maybe, she thinks, blowing on her tea and wishing her father would schedule his little chats with Kyoya for when she’s out of the house, it’s the phone calls themselves that unsettle her. Though it’s not that she minds her father and Kyoya talking on the phone. Not exactly. She’s used to her father expressing his love for her in . . . in . . . in a similar way to a deranged stalker, she concludes with a muffled snort, ghosting her lips against the too-hot liquid. It had seemed all too natural when, as soon as they’d met her, the host club had joined in the deranged stalker routine as if they were born to it, not allowing her a moment to herself. So it still seems oddly natural now that, despite being ten thousand kilometres away, Kyoya keeps up the weekly routine of calling her father, even though she thinks it’s Ranka filling _Kyoya_ in on what she’s been up to, rather than the other way round.

Same old host club. Same old Kyoya. The most unlikely mother hen that ever did cluck.

Beyond the kitchen window, the night sky is hazy with the ever-present Tokyo light pollution, but it’s still beautiful. Haruhi feels an urge to be melancholy as she gazes out at it, until the tea fogs up her glasses, puncturing the moment. There’s no need to be sentimental about the demise of the host club. On her return from Boston, she’d briefly considered being sad, but her second year abroad finished in June – and Ouran’s third year began in April. She’d had the time and mental energy to send out a brief complaint to the universe that she wasn’t Hermione Granger, with a working time turner, and had then sunk into enough catch-up work to stop her thinking about pretty much anything for a while.

It’s the first week of September now – the first week back after the supposed summer holidays – and Haruhi feels so full to the brim with knowledge that if she so much as _sneezes_ it might shoot back out.

“A _bunny_?” her father exclaims too loudly, making Haruhi jump and splash tea down her front. “Ahhhh, my little girl is so _cuuuuuuuute_!”

The _something_ that Kyoya makes her feel congeals into something obvious: irritation. There’s a good reason she doesn’t need to be sentimental about the demise of the host club, after all. The club might no longer commandeer Music Room #3 officially, and the majority of members might now be at college, but if there’s ‘no host club’, Haruhi would like someone to explain to her why she spent two hours today in Music Room #3 wearing a bunny rabbit costume – Usa-chan tucked under her arm and a real-life bunny sitting warm and fluffy in her lap – while half the school politely fought each other for the honour of sitting at her table and being, very awkwardly, served tea.

It was, allegedly, a meeting of the animal husbandry club, run by Chika and Satoshi, Hani and Mori’s – annoyingly adorable – younger brothers. Apart from the bunny, though, there were no animals, and although Chika had tried very hard to persuade her, she remains unconvinced that Music Room #3 is in any way similar to a rabbit’s natural habit.

Why had she let herself be strong-armed into it? It’s a stupid question. She _knows_ why. Tamaki’s the answer, as he always is, but it wasn’t just him. Chika and Satoshi aside, the twins had turned to her with wide, pleading eyes, and Hani had held up Usa-chan with a beaming smile, with Mori hovering hopefully behind him, and . . . and she’d given in, pretty much instantly. Because that’s what she does, it turns out. Even without the impetus of the debt, she still goes along with all the host club’s stupid ideas, because she loves them, annoying idiots that they are.

She had, though, indulged herself in a _real_ moment of melancholy partway through the event when she’d turned to look for Kyoya – her usual ally in the sea of host-club madness – and of course he wasn’t there. She regrets that moment of melancholy _now_. How can she miss someone so _nosy and annoying_ that, despite being on another continent, and only just starting his day while hers is ending, he’s _able to tell her father what kind of day she’s had_?

Haruhi considers this for a moment, pulling out her phone to check the time. Quarter past eight, which makes it – what? Seven fifteen for him? No wonder she’s feeling itchy and restless! It’s not _her_ fault he’s up so early, is it? The thought prickles at her, but as she’s considering things, her phone buzzes in her hand. An emailed LINE notification. _Kyoya Ootori invited you to join the group **‘** Keep tabs on Haruhi so Mommy doesn’t miss out on her refreshing school life!!! **’**_

Her finger hovers on the most refreshing option of the two – the back button – but a spirit of perversity makes her click _Join_. As she scrolls through dozens of photos – most with a shaky perspective that speaks more of speed and enthusiasm than artistic technique – the group explodes with notifications, mostly stickers of flailing, crying animals sent by Tamaki, along with a plaintive: _Kyoya, you traitor!!! Whyyyyyyy!_

Tamaki is listed as the group’s owner, Haruhi notes, before she leaves the group, turning off her phone for good measure before she puts it back in her pocket. She really needs to finish up her English homework. If she works hard, that’ll leave her with a couple of hours before bed, which she can use productively by calling Reiko, the current president of the black magic club, and learning a few quick, pleasant curses.

The bancha twig tea is now cool enough to drink, and Haruhi gulps it down. It’s strong and bitter, just how she likes it, and she feels refreshed enough to settle back at the table. At least she doesn’t need to worry about Kyoya taking some kind of revenge on her for waking him up early. It’s obvious now that Tamaki’s the object of his displeasure, although she wishes they’d both leave her out of it. She has no confidence she won’t get caught in the crossfire; being ten thousand kilometres away is no comfort when it comes to the shadow king.

What do you become when you graduate from being a shadow king? Shadow world emperor? Haruhi snorts and pulls the textbook back towards her. Right. Question thirteen. _Which of the following phrases best describes_ —

Her father slides back his bedroom door with a flourish, the house phone still clamped to his ear, and strikes a glamorous pose before stepping into the living room, a beautiful cloud of billowing silk scarves and floral-scented perfume. “I’m on the late shift today so don’t wait up for me,” he says, briefly removing the phone from his ear to lean across the table and squash her into the bosom he doesn’t have.

Haruhi nods, not looking up. “I won’t,” she says, to her father’s obvious dismay, but he rallies in record time, handing her the phone as he does so.

“Kyoya wants to say hello. Love you, sweetheart!” he adds, and then vanishes out of the front door before Haruhi can protest she doesn’t want to speak to Kyoya. It’s not true, in any case. She just doesn’t want to speak to him _now_ – not at seven-something a.m. his time, when he’s presumably in full Evil Dark Lord mode and Tamaki has done something unspecified to piss him off.

Still. Might as well start as she means to go on. “Good morning, senpai!” she says brightly.

“Is it?” Kyoya says discouragingly.

Haruhi can see the dark clouds hovering over Kyoya’s head as clearly as if she’s in the room with him. She manages – with some difficulty – to resist the urge to dive under the table. In some ways Evil Morning Kyoya is easier to deal with than regular Kyoya, his emotions closer to the surface and easier to read, but she’s definitely not a masochist.

“Are you nervous, senpai?” she finds herself asking though, the words leaving her mouth without her permission. Maybe she _is_ a masochist, she thinks gloomily. Just because _she’s_ just remembered it’s Kyoya’s first proper day at Harvard today – and even someone as effortlessly self-possessed as him must be feeling a twinge of discomfort right now – it doesn’t mean he’s going to appreciate her pointing it out.

There’s a frozen pause during which Haruhi wonders if she’s marked her card for death, and then Kyoya lets out an amused breath. “Nervous? About what?”

She can’t think of anything plausible that’s not the truth. Oh well. “About your first day, of course,” she clarifies.

“Ah,” Kyoya says. “What’s there to be nervous about? I’ve already introduced myself to all my professors and most of the students I’m interested in being friends with, and the syllabus appears . . .” He pauses again, and she can almost feel him shrugging. “Straightforward,” he concludes. “If it wasn’t for the fact I’m planning to get much more out of the extracurricular activities and networking opportunities than I am the actual course, I’d skip a year or two. I’m much more interested in the postgraduate opportunities, after all.”

Haruhi thinks about what Mei said before. _Rich. Patronising._ She then thinks about the fact she can hear Kyoya clicking a pen as he talks. _Click. Click. Click. Click._ “I’m very sorry about Tamaki,” she says sincerely instead.

The clicking pauses. “Oh?” Kyoya asks.

“I know you love him, but I am actually going to have to kill him this time,” she said. “I’ve already thought up a plan, involving a dark circle of thirteen Belzeneffs. Would you like to help?”

Kyoya laughs, and the clicking noise doesn’t resume. “I’ve already had my revenge on him for waking me up at half-past five this morning just to make sure I’d looked at half a dozen blurry photos of you in a rabbit outfit, so I’ll pass this time,” he says brightly. “There was _another hour before my alarm was due to go off_. Besides,” he continues a little more normally, “he’ll feel duty bound to delete the group now, so that probably counts as punishment enough, don’t you think?”

Haruhi’s limbs have contracted into a full-body cringe. “Uh, sorry, senpai.”

“Not your fault,” Kyoya says, back to terrifyingly bright. “I – oh, excuse me a moment.”

Haruhi waits, wondering who’d dare to knock at Kyoya’s door so early in the morning. Maids, she thinks, until she remembers that Kyoya has – for some as yet unknown and terrifying reason – moved out of his luxury apartment and into the first-year dorms. The voice filtering through from the phone sounds American and male, and far too cheerful.

“Great, I’ll be out in a minute,” she hears Kyoya say in English, slightly muffled, and then, “I have to go,” he tells her, his voice tinged with something she’d have called reluctance, if it was anyone else, and doesn’t hang up.

Haruhi doesn’t think, ‘Are you nervous?’ will go down any better a second time, though. “Eat a good breakfast,” she tells him instead.

“Well, naturally,” he says, as if she’s mad.

She decides to rise above it, too busy cringing at a sudden memory of the LINE group, with its blurry, earnest photos. “I’ll tell Tamaki to stop bothering you with updates about me,” she says firmly.

“Mm,” Kyoya says, and then repeats, “ _half-past five_ ,” as if the clock’s done him a personal injury.

“And don’t feel you need to call my father any more, either,” she says firmly, in case any of this can be construed as her fault.

“Mm,” Kyoya says again, and then, to her alarm, adds, “I’ll get Tamaki to call him instead. Though, of course,” he muses, with what she considers deep unkindness, “Tamaki will probably want to visit instead of call, and maybe he’ll find it necessary to update Ranka-san every day rather than once a week, and—”

“ _Senpai_ ,” Haruhi interrupts.

“What?” Kyoya asks, his voice thick with innocence.

Haruhi thinks saying _Help!_ will make him laugh, and since he’s the sod who’s causing her these problems in the first place, he doesn’t deserve it. “I changed my mind. Please continue to call my father,” she says instead with pointed formal politeness.

“I’ll have nothing to tell him, though,” Kyoya points out mildly. In her mind’s eye, his glasses glint, like he’s the villain in an anime. “If Tamaki isn’t allowed to share any updates with me.”

“You can ask _me_!”

“Fine,” Kyoya says.

There’s a smug tone to his voice now that makes Haruhi wonder if she’s been played in some way. She decides to let it go. Kyoya’s mind is twisty like a corkscrew, and it would take up too much mental energy to try to work out what his current scheme is. It will reveal itself in the fullness of time anyway, with or without her input. “Well,” she says, because she doesn’t want to be the reason – or rather the excuse – for him keeping his new roommate waiting, “good luck today, senpai!”

“Thanks, but I don’t need it,” Kyoya says smoothly, and hangs up before she can say goodbye.

“You know, in your own way, you’re just as annoying as Tamaki-senpai,” Haruhi tells the phone, and then turns back to her English homework. Question thirteen calls to her. But so does her mobile phone, sitting silent and ominous in her pocket, like a ticking bomb. She can’t bring herself to turn it back on, so she picks the house phone up instead and dials Tamaki’s number.

He answers, if that were possible, before she’s even finished dialling, and a creeping sense of despair curls its way out of the phone, swirling round her and settling on her like a heavy blanket.

“Haruhi!!!” Tamaki sniffs, but doesn’t go on.

“I’m only a _bit_ mad at you, senpai,” Haruhi says firmly, and the despair-smog writhes a little, letting out another sniff. “But if Kyoya-senpai really wants to know what I’ve been up to, he can ask me himself, can’t he?” _He just did_ , she thinks, but she feels dubious about whether he actually meant it. It’s more likely Kyoya wants her to give him news on what _Tamaki’s_ up to, now she thinks about it. 

“Yes,” sniffs Tamaki, small and sad and that perfect combination of irritating and endearing that has them all wrapped around his little finger. “But he misses you, Haruhi.”

“No he doesn’t,” Haruhi protests, and then adds: “Surely if he misses anyone, it’s you.”

Tamaki’s silent for a moment, although it feels more of a ‘thoughtful’ than a ‘mushroom-growing’ silence. “Do you really think so?” he asks, earnest about nonsense in the way that only he can be.

“Yes?” Haruhi says, faintly unnerved.

“Poor, poor Kyoya,” Tamaki chokes out with exaggerated pathos, and it’s as if his words are surrounded by sparkles. “I never thought – but of _course_! And – I have to go,” he says, determination writ large in his every word. “I must put this right _at once_!”

“No! Wait!” Haruhi says in alarm, but for the second time in a row she’s speaking to the dial tone. She thinks about how she’s just told Tamaki that Kyoya misses him – and that Tamaki is off to put it right _at once_. She seems to see Kyoya smiling at her, the way he used to smile just before he told her that it was fine, and he’d sorted it all out, and he was only going to add five hundred thousand yen to her debt, so she wasn’t to worry about a thing.

She is so, so dead.

“Mother, sometimes I don’t know what I did to deserve all this,” Haruhi says out loud, glancing in the direction of her mother’s shrine. But there’s nothing she can do about it now, so she shakes out the tension in her shoulders, turns back to her English textbook and picks up her pen.


	2. Wish you were here (so I could kill you)

_Tokyo: Wednesday, 6pm_

Such is the strange and corrupting influence of the host club, it seems almost reasonable to Haruhi that the next time she sees Tamaki he’s sitting on the edge of the Ouran Academy fish pond, his feet in the water and his shoes and socks piled neatly beside him.

OK, so Tamaki _looks_ happy enough, his head tipped back to the watch the sunset, but if there’s ever a time for fish-pond paddling, Haruhi thinks an unseasonably chilly September evening isn’t it. She’s been hiding in the school library for the past few hours, in a fruitless attempt to catch up on her never-ending schoolwork. She wonders how long he’s been waiting out there.

“What are you doing?” she asks cautiously, and Tamaki waves with enthusiasm, indicating that she should join him. “Aren’t you cold?” she adds as she sits gingerly down next to him.

He flashes her a dazzling smile and raises a declamatory hand in the air. “Can a man be cold when his heart is warmed by the presence of such radiant beauty?”

“Yes,” Haruhi says heartlessly, and Tamaki looks wounded for a fraction of a second, before splashing his feet with contentment.

“I’m feeling nostalgic,” Tamaki says, staring up at the orange-streaked clouds, and then turns to beam at her. “Aren’t you?”

Haruhi wonders if he’s caught a chill and that’s why nonsense is coming out of his mouth, and then wonders how she’d tell the difference between his normal nonsense and chill-inspired nonsense. “Nostalgic about what?” she tries.

Tamaki’s eyes widen. “Our first true meeting of minds happened right here! In this pond! It was a momentous occasion, which will go down in history!”

Haruhi blinks, but Tamaki’s already off on one again. “Maybe I should dig the pond up and have it transported to the Suoh mansion,” he muses dreamily.

“I think Ouran’s already using it,” Haruhi says firmly, just in case he’s being serious. With these rich idiots, sometimes it’s hard to tell. “Best it stays where it is.”

Tamaki kicks his feet idly, sending ripples flooding across the still, dark water. “Then perhaps I should persuade my father to erect a plaque . . .” he murmurs. “Anyway, I was wondering,” he says, and slides a look at her, his eyes full-on puppy dog.

“No, I don’t give you permission to restart the LINE group,” Haruhi says, because most of the time she can read Tamaki like a book with very large print.

Tamaki’s gaze darts away from her, and then back, his puppy dog expression intensifying. “But—” he says, with an audible pout.

“ _No_ , senpai,” Haruhi says. “And I hope you haven’t been bothering Kyoya either! He’ll be much too busy,” she adds severely.

Tamaki shoots her a serene, angelic look, which is the opposite of reassuring, and then splashes some more. “Kyoya’s” _splash_ “never” _splash_ “bothered” _splash splash_ “by me,” he says with touching optimism.

It _is_ cold, she thinks. Sunsets are all well and good, but it’s almost fully dark, and she’s hungry, too. Something warming and quick for dinner, she decides. There’s half a packet of chicken breasts left in the fridge, isn’t there? Shiitake mushrooms . . . spring onions . . . Some kind of soba noodle soup? She probably has enough to feed Tamaki too, she thinks, when he inevitably invites himself over. She doesn’t want him to sit about with wet feet and catch a cold.

She’s already starting to stand up when Tamaki says, far too cheerfully, “Kyoya definitely misses you more than me, though. He all but told me so when—”

Haruhi blinks – and stumbles. There’s a moment where she wonders what she’s tripped on, because it would be pretty stupid if it was her own feet, but that’s quickly overwhelmed by the dreadful certainty that if Tamaki doesn’t save her, she’s going straight into the pond.

Tamaki’s eyes widen comically, and he does a kind of lunge, but Haruhi’s not sure what, exactly, happens next, only that the water’s _freezing_ , and Tamaki’s bloody heavy, especially when he’s squashing her down under an embarrassingly shallow amount of water.

She tries to flail to the surface – she’s not panicking, as such, but she’s always been a fan of breathing – except when she makes it, Tamaki, who’s suddenly _much_ too close, grabs her . . . and then, just as quickly, lets go. When she finally manages to sit up, spitting out waterlilies and hoping she hasn’t sat on any of the koi, Tamaki has one hand over his eyes and appears to be trying to peel off his sodden shirt without showing any skin. He’s gone so red, he’s glowing faintly: an embarrassed beacon, lighting up the dark.

Haruhi looks down at herself. The wet school uniform is doing its best to cling to her curves, but is being thwarted by her inability to actually grow any. Theoretically _she_ should be embarrassed, she supposes, but she’s always been more of a practical kind of girl, and Tamaki seems embarrassed enough for the both of them. She decides to get up and squelch to dry land, rather than continue to watch Tamaki contort himself – and besides, there’s a grave risk that if she stays where she is, Tamaki will fling his wet shirt in her face, in an earnest but misguided attempt to protect her modesty. She starts to laugh instead, though – and then finds she can’t stop.

Tamaki peeks at her through his fingers, and she splashes him, and then _he’s_ laughing too, and just when she thinks she’s strong enough to actually stand up, Tamaki’s grabbed his phone from the pond-side and splashed over for a terrible, soggy selfie of the two of them, and she finds she’s laughing all over again, hard enough to hurt. When Tamaki directs his chauffeur to take them back to her apartment, and then drips out of the car after her, his expression one of damp, shining hope, she can’t bring herself to send him home.

Tamaki looks ridiculous in her dad’s clothes, and she never knew his hair dried so fluffy and enormous. She’s briefly overwhelmed with something she can’t identify, but lets it sit, warm and comfortable, in her chest as she cooks, Tamaki monologuing excitedly about his college classmates and all the interesting things he’s learning all the while.

It’s relief she’s feeling, she realises as she serves the soup and he digs in after a cheerful, “Bon appetit!”

“Bon appetit,” Haruhi echoes politely, and as she does, the knot of tension in her insides that she’d thought was school stress melts away with every warm, comforting sip of broth.

On their last night in Boston – was it really only two months ago? – Tamaki had confessed to her, and she’d turned him down. And the next day, Tamaki and Kyoya had flown off to travel the world for a summer of adventures, while she and the others returned to Japan. Has it really been playing on her mind so much?

Yes, it seems. Not the confession, as such. It had been a relief, all things considered, that Tamaki had finally got it over with, so _she_ could finally get it over with, and they could get straight back to being normal. She’d had a little cry in private afterwards, because she’s not made of stone, but by the time she’d landed back in Tokyo she’d felt much better. She loves Tamaki, but she doesn’t _love_ him, and it’s pointless to angst about that. She can’t feel what she doesn’t feel. But it’s only now that she recognises how worried she’s been recently, underneath it all. That when he came back, things _wouldn’t_ go straight back to being normal. That they’d be different, somehow. Awkward.

She can imagine her life without him in it. But that doesn’t mean she wants to.

That Tamaki’s sitting opposite her now, the same cheerful, infuriating mass of energy as ever, is so wonderful – so perversely _relaxing_ – that she can’t stop herself smiling.

“You know, I think Kyoya might be in love with you too,” Tamaki says cheerfully, just as she’s slurped up a particularly hearty mouthful of chicken soba.

No, Haruhi thinks, as she tries to breathe soba rather than air, and finds she hasn’t developed the talent, she was wrong. It’s _not_ relaxing. It’s not relaxing _one bit_.

Tamaki, who appears to have learned all his life-saving techniques from trashy soap operas, tackles her to the ground and looms over her, wetting his lips and clearly psyching himself up to give her mouth to mouth. Haruhi’s almost glad when her father chooses that exact, terrible moment to return early from work, because if Tamaki tries to kiss her, she’s going to have to knee him in the balls, and she’s not sure their relationship can take the strain.

Instead, her father gives Tamaki a mighty smack that sends him flying, and then says, his voice peculiar, “Why are you wearing my clothes, pervert child?”

Tamaki flails on the ground, like an upturned tortoise, and doesn’t explain – possibly because anything he might say will sound ridiculous.

“We fell in a fish pond,” Haruhi says, and she’s right, it _does_ sound ridiculous.

“I _rescued_ you from a fish pond!” Tamaki objects, still flailing.

Haruhi thinks she wouldn’t have fallen in the pond if Tamaki hadn’t blindsided her with – with – with . . .

“You pushed my darling child into a fish pond, you say?” Haruhi’s dad muses, his voice bright with tolerance, and Tamaki flails all the harder – in, Haruhi can’t help but notice, the direction of the door. “And then when she was kind enough to cook you a delicious home-made dinner, you decided to repay her by ONCE AGAIN attempting to . . .?”

Tamaki’s gone the colour of an aubergine, and he springs to his feet, his hand locking on to the front door-handle like a guided missile. “See you tomorrow, Haruhi!” he says, and then legs it, the coward.

Haruhi’s dad looks at her. She looks at him.

“Difficult day?” he asks sympathetically, shrugging off his coat and handbag and coming to settle companionably on the floor beside her.

Haruhi considers this. She fell in a pond. She tried to breathe soba. Nothing, she thinks, particularly out of the ordinary when it comes to her daily life with the host club around.

_You know, I think Kyoya might be in love with you too,_ Tamaki says cheerfully in her head.

“I . . . really miss Mum,” she says.

Her father reaches out to pat the back of her nearest hand. “Me too, sweetheart. Me too.”

* * *

_Cambridge: Wednesday, 5.30am_

The photo is ridiculous. Haruhi looks like a drowned – happy – rat, and Tamaki a drowned – insane – ferret. Tamaki’s captioned it _Wish you were here!_ but if there’s an explanation coming, it’s got lost somewhere in the digital ether. Kyoya can think of little less appealing than night-swimming with Ouran’s carp, but he stares at the picture for long enough that it starts to blur, and he has to put his phone down to rub his eyes.

It’s half past five in the morning, and that’s excuse enough. At least this time Tamaki didn’t send someone to wake him up, Kyoya thinks wearily. He’s been up all night of his own volition, working on an interesting takeover deal he’s still not sure whether he’ll tell his father about. He might keep it to himself, a small, private victory, in case he needs one at a future date.

He supposes he shouldn’t be up so late during his first week on his course, but it’s _getting_ up that’s always been his problem, not _staying_ up. Sometimes it’s more efficient to do business through the night, and pay for it later, and he’s . . . not homesick, as such – that would be stupid, given he’s been living in America for over a year now – but he’d acknowledge he’s feeling more restless than usual.

_I was thinking I might fly back this weekend_ , he types out, and then deletes it. Despite the excellent facilities on-board his family’s private jet, it’s too long a flight to be a sensible use of his time. He’s too busy to indulge himself like that.

_Did you get my parcel yet?_ Tamaki sends. And then, _I know you’re there. I can see the read notification._

Kyoya snorts. _No_ , he sends, looking over at the three – enormous – photo canvases he’s leaned against the side of his bed because he can’t think what else to do with them right now. He’s hardly going to hang them. But he feels strangely disinclined to call Tachibana to come collect them for disposal.

Besides, Tachibana’s shown an alarming tendency to hold on to all of Tamaki’s discarded gifts, and Kyoya thinks _these_ particular presents will sow marital discord in Tachibana’s happy home. Mrs Tachibana swears she was perfectly happy to uproot her family to follow young master Kyoya all the way to America, but Kyoya knows a liar when he sees one.

_Liar_ , Tamaki shoots back – touché, Kyoya supposes. _Fly home for a visit this weekend?_ Tamaki follows up after a second’s pause. _We miss you._

Not I. We. Kyoya’s restlessness dissolves into something sharper. _I have plans_ , he replies, and then sets his phone aside to concentrate on his laptop, and after five or ten minutes his phone finally stops pinging.

* * *

By seven, Kyoya’s reached the limit of his concentration, but he knows himself too well: if he goes to sleep, however many alarms he sets, there’s no way he’ll manage to get up and out to make it to his first lecture at ten.

He opens up LINE. _Tamaki sent me a present_ , he messages Haruhi.

He doesn’t have to wait too long for an answer. _It’s not my fault! I can explain!_ she replies, almost instantly. And then, thirty seconds later, _All right, I probably can’t explain. What did he send you?_

Kyoya stares the message and then calls Tamaki.

“Have you called to thank me?” Tamaki says cheerfully. “I didn’t like to think of you all the way over there in Cambridge, lonely and friendless in your commoner accommodation, so—”

“Lonely and friendless?” Kyoya inquires politely.

“Of course!” Tamaki says, with all the tact and subtlety of a brick. “ _I’m_ not there. You do miss me, don’t you?” he adds, now sounding a little dubious. “I mean, Haruhi said she thought you did, but I think you probably just miss _her_.”

“I miss all of you,” Kyoya says stolidly, and it’s true, even if it’s not the whole truth. “But I’d miss you a lot more, Tamaki, if you left me alone for five minutes at a time.”

Tamaki laughs. “All right, all right. Have a good day! Do your best!” he says with good-natured affection, and Kyoya hangs up, rolling his eyes.

Still, Tamaki has a good heart, he thinks, looking again at the canvases, even if he often expresses it by acting like a total idiot. _Are you free for a quick Skype call?_ he sends to Haruhi. After all, a picture paints a thousand words, and if he tries to use _actual_ words to describe Tamaki’s gift, he might as well just send a thousand asterisks. He wasn’t brought up to swear in front of women. He wasn’t brought up to swear at all.

_Sure_ , comes the reply, and he hides his grin, even though he’s alone.

He feels better, somehow, the moment she appears on his laptop screen, faintly pixelated in a way that doesn’t conceal her current scruffiness. She’s wearing her glasses, and she hasn’t brushed her hair. He’s not even sure if she’s dressed in house clothes or in really terrible old-fashioned pyjamas. Most women wouldn’t be seen dead looking like that – particularly not by a member of the Ootori family, even if he _is_ technically just the third son.

Haruhi is not most women.

“It’s good to see you,” he says, because it’s true, and for some reason she goes red.

“You too,” she says, with a little wave. “Warm night,” she clarifies, flapping a paper fan that appears to be advertising Hokkaido Melon flavour KitKats. Kyoya feels briefly pleased that at least Tamaki didn’t send him some ‘delicious’ convenience-store food as a gift, and makes a mental note to buy Haruhi’s apartment block and make sure the units all have the latest air-conditioning technology. He’s not sure why he hasn’t done it before. It would be a sound investment.

He experiences a moment of doubt after he’s made the decision, because _Tamaki_ should be doing it, shouldn’t he? It feels like stepping on his best friend’s toes, given it’s only a matter of time before Haruhi realises she’s as in love with Tamaki as Tamaki is with her. But—

“Do I want to know what Tamaki sent you?” Haruhi asks, smiling at him from ten thousand kilometres away. “Shall I get the dark circle of thirteen Belzeneffs ready?”

—Tamaki won’t do it because he’s an idiot, Kyoya thinks, who’s too worried about Haruhi finding out and getting angry. Kyoya’s not sure he cares if Haruhi gets angry at him; not when he knows he’s acting in her best interests. They’re not friends in the same way she’s friends with the Hitachiins, or even with Hani and Mori. There’s always been something slightly uncomfortable between them.

He wonders, sometimes, if it was there right from the start – she certainly knows a side of him he’s purposely kept hidden from all the other women at Ouran. In the middle of the night, he sometimes wonders, instead, if he introduced it when he did that ridiculously stupid thing in his bedroom at that beach house – or if he’s the only one of the two of them that can’t forget it, and that’s why he feels uncomfortable around _her_ sometimes, and he’s just imagining she feels it too.

He likes to be certain, and she makes him feel uncertain sometimes. He’s not sure he likes that either.

“Senpai?” Haruhi asks, and he realises he hasn’t been paying attention.

“Take a look,” he invites, and gets up from his chair, angling his laptop’s webcam so she can take in the full glory of Tamaki’s present.

His dorm room is amusingly minuscule – and the three photo canvases are enormous. If Kyoya were to hang them, they’d cover most of one wall. It’s a terrible shame he can’t, he thinks with great insincerity, but there’s his damages deposit to think of.

“I can’t decide which photo I’d prefer to have next to the bed,” he says, though, as if he’s seriously considering it, and Haruhi makes a kind of snuffling noise that suggests she’s trying very hard not to laugh.

“I think . . . the group photo is the least . . . intense,” she manages, and he supposes that’s true.

In it, the host club, clad in the alleged traditional garb of Balinese royalty, are carefully posed for maximum moe. It’s one of the club’s best-selling photos, and seeing it makes his heart glad for all the yen that flowed into their coffers, but . . . “I’m not _embarrassed_ by the host club,” he muses out loud, “but at the same time, maybe the invigorating sight of my own bare chest, blown up to near life-size proportions, isn’t the ideal way to set myself up for a hard day’s applied math and economics.”

Haruhi’s lips are twitching, but she manages to say, sincere but a little muffled, “Then the picture of you and Tamaki?”

He considers this. It’s certainly a picture. And it’s definitely of him and Tamaki. But he thinks real life has less glitter, and certainly fewer roses. “It will haunt my nightmares enough as it is,” he decides.

That only leaves—

No. Absolutely not. “If Chika and Satoshi haven’t made enough money to fund their animal club expenses for the next three months out of this one, they’re not trying hard enough,” Kyoya says.

Whoever took _this_ picture of Haruhi has better camera skills than Tamaki. It’s in focus, for a start. But that doesn’t mean that a photo of Haruhi in a rabbit costume, with a bunny on her lap and Hani’s Usa-chan under her arm, has any place in his bedroom.

But just _looking_ at it is making him want to laugh. He feels like he hasn’t laughed much for a good few months.

“Go with the group photo,” Haruhi says firmly. “You could stick Post-it notes over the nipples,” she adds, her tone practical. “If you’re worried about what your roommates might think.”

“Thank you for your input,” Kyoya says drily, which this time actually makes Haruhi laugh. “I’ll take it under advisement.” He sits back down and rests his cheek on his hand. He’s exhausted, but feels no urge to sleep. “So, how was your day?”

Haruhi shoots him a speculative look. “You already know,” she says. It’s not a question.

He can’t see the point in denying it, despite the fact it’s not entirely true. It’s always helpful, in his experience, to be considered more all-seeing than you are. “I’d still like to hear it from the bunny’s mouth,” he says mildly.

Haruhi throws her paper fan at her computer screen, and he ducks, grinning. But she tells him all about it anyway, and it’s as ridiculous as he’d expected, even though he thinks she’s hiding half the real story and he can’t work out why. He smiles anyway, because it’s funny, and feels a stab of actual, real-life homesickness he doesn’t enjoy. “And how was _your_ day?” she asks when she’s finished.

“It hasn’t really started yet,” he says, but when she rolls her eyes he finds himself telling her much more than is wise about the project he’s been working on. He trusts her not to tell anyone else, but that’s hardly the point. It’s not good practice to share confidential business information with someone who hasn’t signed an NDA.

He thinks that if he sends her one, she’ll probably sign it. He’s not sure if that makes it better or worse.

She’s in the middle of a question when her face splits in a massive yawn. “Sorry,” she says apologetically. “It’s getting late here.”

Kyoya glances at the time. They haven’t been talking very long, have they? It’s got to be only – _shit_! “Apologies, but I have to go. I’m running a little late,” he says. The understatement of the century. He doesn’t even have time to change into fresh clothes if he wants to make his seminar before it starts.

“Good luck for today then, senpai!” Haruhi says cheerfully. “I should go to bed, in any case.”

“Ah – sleep well,” Kyoya says, a little ridiculously, and as he finds the ‘end call’ button, can’t help but notice that Haruhi’s gone red again.

It really _must_ be hot in her apartment, he thinks vaguely as he unplugs his laptop and dashes out of his dorm room, a mental image of her – all messy hair and ugly glasses – keeping him company as he half-runs out of the Yard, all the way to the main campus.


	3. The gold star nipple trial

_Tokyo: Mid September_

The deadline for choosing which club to join arrives. Chika and Satoshi have spent the past two weeks waging a deadly war of cuteness to get her to join their animal club – aided and abetted by Tamaki and Hani, who pop up at unexpected moments to muse about all the different animal costumes she’d look cute in (Tamaki) and offer her cupcakes iced like little bears (Hani).

Haruhi joins the gardening club. It seems safer, all in all, and she doesn’t think anyone will ask her to dress up as a seed, or set up a tea party in the greenhouse.

Her first thought is to open up LINE and message Kyoya. The host club isn’t there to join, and it wasn’t like she _chose_ to join it in the first place, but signing up for a new club seems so momentous a decision that she feels the need to share it – and of all the former members, she thinks Kyoya’s the only one who’d understand her conflicted feelings.

Her second thought is: _You know, I think Kyoya might be in love with you too_.

Haruhi looks at the gardening club members – the club is three times as large as she remembers it, and contains one hundred percent more Hikaru and Kaoru than it did before – and wonders if it’s too late to change her mind and join the black magic club instead. She feels like she might have accidentally stepped into the dark circle of thirteen Belzeneffs herself, and only Reiko knows the counter-curse to save her.

She tries to put the whole nonsensical business out of her head and concentrate on the first official club meeting instead. President Hiroshi, a quiet boy from class 3-C who seems almost struck dumb with terror by the influx of so many new members, takes them to the greenhouse and, with much prodding from Vice President Bossa Nova, manages to explain their first project. Soon she’s the proud – dubious – owner of a tiny, wild-looking seedling that the president claims with the proper care and attention will grow into a perfect Bonsai tree.

Haruhi takes it home and, after a moment’s hesitation, takes a photo of the pathetic plant, sends it to Kyoya, and then goes to spend some quality time with a nailbrush.

There isn’t a reply waiting for her when she’s finished, and she’s not disappointed. It’s still the middle of the night in America. And even if it wasn’t, she’s not the sort of girl who waits around for replies to pictures of pre-Bonsai trees. That would be pathetic.

She sends it to Mori instead, and he replies with a photo of what she thinks must be a room in his own house – an ancient, impeccably-pruned Bonsai taking pride of place in an alcove. It’s serene. Beautiful. She looks at her tiny idiot plant and, to her own bemusement, feels bad for it.

_Mine is just a baby_ , she sends defensively.

_Yes_ , Mori replies. _But it will grow_.

For some mysterious reason this makes her feel better. But her sense of frustration, of restlessness, soon returns. She ignores it. She eats dinner, does her homework, gets ready for bed. _Why can’t I stop thinking about what Tamaki said to me about Kyoya?_ she demands of her bedroom ceiling. It’s definitely not true – and even if it was, it’s not the first time she’s found out a friend has feelings for her. It’s never made her feel so weird before, though. What is she missing?

Her phone vibrates just as she’s falling asleep, and she blearily reaches for it, feeling a buzz of . . . _something_ when Kyoya’s face pops up on her screen in miniature.

_Why are you sending me a photo of a weed?_

Haruhi snorts. _It’s a Bonsai tree. Or at least, it will be_ , she replies.

_Send me another photo in fifteen years. I’ll reserve judgement till then._

Rude, arrogant . . . Haruhi thinks blearily, but finds she’s smiling. She’s already asleep by the time Kyoya’s next message comes through.

_I have half an hour before class – I could call you if you’re free?_

* * *

_Cambridge_

The first couple of weeks of September go both too quickly and too slowly. Kyoya is used to being busy – balancing the needs of school, the host club and his private family affairs is at least two full-time jobs – but Harvard seems to be attempting to steal all his time and blur all his boundaries. Instead of school, friends and home, he now has . . . Harvard. He wakes to his roommates, in the terrible – mandatory – first-year accommodation he decided he could put up with for the sake of his education. He eats with his fellow first-years, either in the old-fashioned grandeur of the Berg dining hall, or in one of the hip cafes in the nearby Harvard Square. He studies with his fellow first-years. His new clubs – for a little variety – feature students from more than one year, but he finds his fellow first-years gravitate towards him even here, as if they recognise he knows who he is and what he’s doing, and they want to learn from his example. Tachibana and his security team trail after him, at a discreet distance, but he needs them so little, half the time he doesn’t even remember that they’re there.

His world seems to have narrowed into about one square mile of ground, while leaving him with very little time to breathe. He both enjoys and resents it, and as he leaves his Monday afternoon macroeconomics tutorial and is surrounded yet again by new friends who want to take up his time, he enjoys and resents that too. The host club was an excellent practise ground for winning over people of influence, and he knows that’s one of the main reasons his father didn’t object to him joining such a frivolous society. He doesn’t want to turn the charm back off. But he’s used to much more time alone, and being constantly surrounded by people is making him itch.

It’s not just the combination of ingrained host-club manners and natural Ootori charm that’s rapidly made him one of the most popular first-years, though. For _that,_ Kyoya one hundred percent blames Tamaki.

To Kyoya’s well-suppressed horror, he must have left his room unlocked, because his roommates had discovered Tamaki’s present when he was out at a lecture. He’d returned to find the huge picture of bunny-Haruhi hung up opposite his bed, while the glittery tribute to his and Tamaki’s intimate friendship was nailed above his headboard. The two photos seemed to stare at each other; the rabbit in Haruhi’s lap, Kyoya had thought, had an appropriate look of dismay on its fluffy face.

When he’d escaped the bedroom horror scene to the common room, it was to find the bare-chested group photo now taking pride of place.

Kyoya could think of no plausible explanation for the photos except the truth, and in sharing his host-club exploits he seems to have positioned himself as some kind of nerd-tinged international playboy – but one with a sense of humour, for which he thanks Haruhi. His roommates chose small gold stars to conceal the host club’s manly nipples, rather than Post-it notes, which is simultaneously better and _so much worse_. Kyoya plans to autograph the photo canvas and auction it off for charity at the earliest possibly opportunity; a win-win if he ever heard one.

Back then, he’d taken a selfie next to the photo; now, as he heads off for his second lecture of the afternoon, surrounded by people, he opens up LINE . . . and once again doesn’t hit send.

He’s too busy to look at his phone again until early evening, in the few minutes before he’s due to meet a group in the Berg for the inevitably revolting evening meal. He scrolls past the messages from Tamaki and his sister, to re-read Haruhi’s apology for missing him yesterday. His today. The time difference still gives him a headache, even after all these months. She’s sent him a second photo of the weed. He wonders if she plans to send him a new one every day for the next fifteen years, until he acknowledges her triumph over tiny trees, and finds the thought curiously pleasing.

He sends her the selfie in reply, without words – it doesn’t _need_ words – and does a quick time-zone calculation. She’ll be in class. He puts his phone back in his pocket and heads off to dinner instead.

* * *

On Thursday evening Kyoya sets two alarms on his phone, one on his iPad and arranges for Tachibana to personally come and wake him up if he doesn’t pick up the phone.

It’s ridiculous that it’s come to this, but he hasn’t spoken to Ranka in a fortnight, which he considers a dereliction of his duty, and he can’t impose on the Fujioka household by asking _them_ to wake up early instead.

He manages to get up before the third alarm, barking a “Morning” at Tachibana, and stumbles into the shared bathroom – everything about the student dorms is _appalling_ – to wash his face and try to coax his hair into doing something less ridiculous. He can’t make himself shower or get dressed before he calls Ranka – which he regrets when Ranka video-calls him from Haruhi’s laptop, in response to his polite text checking it was still OK to ring.

He regrets it even more when, after a cheerful conversation that mainly consists of Ranka teasing him mercilessly about the dark circles under his eyes, Ranka shoves the laptop at a clearly startled Haruhi – who looks even more startled to be greeted by an unexpected bedhead-and-pyjamas-Kyoya.

Kyoya decides to style it out. It’s not like Haruhi appreciates him for his looks, anyway. “Your weed is looking magnificent,” he says politely. “Thank you for the daily updates.”

Haruhi grins at him, and he gets a wonky view of her apartment as she carries the laptop into her bedroom, balancing it on her lap as she settles on to the futon. “I like the gardening club,” she offers, before pausing.

He nods encouragingly, and she tells him about Ouran’s vegetable garden and the seeds they’ve been sowing – carrots, chard, potatoes and corn. It should be tedious – he has little interest in where vegetables come from, as long as they taste good when they appear on his plate – but her enthusiasm somehow makes it interesting. It’s amusing, too. For Ouran’s cultural exhibitions, if he remembers correctly, the gardening club usually specialises in displays of rare orchids. He wonders if this year, under Haruhi’s oblivious influence, they’ll build a tower of carrots instead.

The twins are involved too, he remembers. They’ll probably be . . . anatomically-shaped carrots. He suppresses a snicker and hopes Chairman Suoh is feeling strong this year.

“Have you joined any clubs, senpai?” Haruhi asks. “Or will you restart the host club?” she muses, tipping her head to one side to regard him thoughtfully. Her hair is almost shoulder-length now, and it moves like water.

He blinks, tries to remember what they were talking about.

Haruhi grins. “You _are_ going to restart the host club!”

“Maybe as a one-off charity event,” he allows, his mind cataloguing through potential hosts. He’s not the only Japanese student at Harvard with the right social background, and there are even a couple of Western students he thinks might suit, with enough training. But the thought of it is tiresome, somehow, and there’s an underlying ridiculousness about the club that he thinks, outside of the Ouran context, might translate into mockery. He has no desire to become a figure of fun; he’s uncomfortably aware he’s passed the gold star nipple trial more by luck than design. 

“There are enough existing societies, as it is. I understand it’s common to join as many as ten in your first year,” he explains. The thought makes him tired, possibly because he _is_ tired. He’s already attended two lectures hosted by the Institute of Politics, and has personal invites to try the Computer Society, the Debate Team and the International Relations Council. He joined the Harvard Investment Association and Leadership Institute before he arrived. He fully expects to be punched for at least two or three final clubs, if not this year, then next.

He feels the urge to found a ‘Leave Kyoya Alone for Five Minutes’ club and make his own regular attendance mandatory. Tamaki can be its president. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. God, he’s tired.

“Are you OK, senpai?” Haruhi asks, and then looks a little startled, as if she hadn’t meant to ask that.

“Yes, fine thanks. Are you?” he replies as he slides his glasses back on, feeling faintly unnerved.

She nods.

“Good,” he says firmly, and then realises the time. It’s run away from him again – and this time he can’t run straight to class. He’s still in his pyjamas. There are limits.

“What are you studying today?” Haruhi asks.

He’s looking forward to his first lecture of the day. He can’t miss it, just because he wants to tell her about it. “I have to go now,” he says, and tries to work out time zones. His head feels like cotton wool. “Can I call you back later?”

Her forehead wrinkles in thought. “It’s getting late here. Before school tomorrow?”

That would be . . . He needs to print out a chart, or something. His brain never works properly first thing. He flips through his tablet, looking at his schedule. He has a ten-minute gap here . . . five minutes there . . . and a full half hour, right at the time she’ll be arriving at school. He pulls a face – on the inside. He’s getting up early again, isn’t he? “It’ll have to be after,” he says decisively. “Eight p.m.?”

Haruhi smiles and nods, and after saying their goodbyes he sets a thousand alarms for half past six and hates everything for a while.

* * *

_Tokyo_

It’s not like Haruhi doesn’t have enough to do. The gardening club is a good distraction, and she’s soon persuaded Hiroshi and Bossa Nova to dispense with the army of hired helpers who, as far as she can tell, were there to do the actual digging. The physical labour is good for them – good for _her_. She’d always expected third year to be tough, and she’s already drowning in work. But then she’s been drowning in work ever since she got back to Japan, so it makes no practical difference. University entrance exams loom, a dark cloud on the horizon, as do decisions she doesn’t feel ready to make. She wants to read law, that’s easy enough. But where? Ouran University? Or . . . further afield?

Her brain buzzes, and when it’s not buzzing there’s homework to think of – stacks and stacks of it. She likes school, and she likes studying. She’s always been ambitious. But she feels on the verge of something, and she doesn’t know what it is.

She’s getting older, she supposes, and wonders if this is what it feels like to be an adult – stressed out and hopeful, with the world both opening up and closing down in front of you with each step forward that you take.

Being so busy, though . . . It should be impossible for her to find the time to fit Kyoya into her life. And yet, he slots in as easily as if he was still attending Ouran. They don’t speak every evening, but they speak often enough that it feels like she talks to him more than all her other Ouran friends. Certainly more than Hani and Mori, who she suspects are spending almost every second they’re not in college together. She thinks Mori still regrets not picking the same major as Hani – and is equally determined not to show it – but then she’s always found Mori’s silences easy to read.

She doesn’t find _Kyoya_ easy to read, but then she never has. His life is so different to hers, she supposes, with his servants, and private security, and his family billions. She doesn’t find it intimidating, though, so much as ridiculous. It’s not the money that makes the difference. She suspects she can’t work Kyoya out because he can’t always work _himself_ out. He’s so determined to win – but win what? If he climbs over his brothers to be offered leadership of the Ootori business, he’ll tear his family apart at the seams. Is that really what he wants? She finds it hard to imagine.

She doesn’t dwell on it though. It’s none of her business. If he wants to talk about it, he will. Besides, she’s too busy enjoying getting to know him better, without the distracting influence of Tamaki, bouncing about everywhere like an unexploded, happy bomb, requiring Kyoya’s constant attention. She’s interested in his tales of Harvard life, and what he’s studying, of course, but he’s less cautious about what he says than he used to be. He’s spiky and caustic under the thick outer layer of charm, and . . .

And . . .

_You know, I think Kyoya might be in love with you too._

“Ahhh, Kyoya-kun’s such a sweetheart,” her father gushes one morning, out of nowhere. “If I was twenty years younger . . .”

Haruhi accidentally knocks her teacup over, and only just manages not be late for school.


	4. Chicken curry rice

_Cambridge: Late September_

It’s Saturday evening, and a rare and lovely thing has happened: Kyoya’s been stood up. He’s already at the restaurant where he was due to dine with a junior business acquaintance of his father’s, and while it’s a little irritating to have his time wasted, he feels like he’s been given an unexpected gift: a couple of hours by himself, with no one expecting anything from him.

He calls Tachibana and arranges for flowers to be sent to his dinner companion’s hospital bed – the unfortunate idiot tripped over his own suitcase in his hotel room, as he understands it, breaking a small bone in his foot – and then summons the waiter and orders the grand omakase.

The recently-opened sushi restaurant is small and stylish, all dark wood and brick walls, and he’s tucked in a discreet corner where he can people-watch, at a two-seater table he now has all to himself. He can see the chefs, and they all look reassuringly Japanese, so he hopes the food won’t be too disappointing. To be honest, he’s mostly just looking forward to eating something that doesn’t involve swipe cards, disposable paper cups and overcooked pasta. The food from the canteen leaves much to be desired. Last year, when he had his own apartment, he’d hired a Michelin-starred personal chef. The privations of living in shared dorms are undoubtedly character forming, but on the whole he likes his existing character just fine.

He sets his phone on the table, and then doesn’t know what to do with himself. He has his tablet with him, so there’s plenty of things he _could_ do – productive and useful things. He doesn’t want to be productive and useful. He wants to turn off his brain and let someone else do the thinking for a while. He finds himself wondering what Haruhi’s doing right now. It’s already Sunday morning back in Tokyo. He has very little idea what regular people do on Sunday mornings. Laundry? Food shopping? Cleaning?

_What you are you up to today?_ he messages her, and then scrolls through the texts he’s been ignoring from his sister to check it’s her usual friendly nagging and nothing important.

_Normal Sunday things_ , Haruhi replies. _You?_

Kyoya sips his water, thinking with mild irritation of the sake menu – he doesn’t drink much, but it’s frustrating to be denied the option – and calls Haruhi.

She picks up, and he can hear the murmur of voices around her, punctuated by the sound of a tannoy. “Is this a bad time?” he asks.

“It’s fine,” she says, matter of fact. “I’m just at the supermarket. I can shop and talk, if that’s OK?”

“Of course,” he says politely. “It was me who disturbed you.”

“Curry rice or ginger pork?” Haruhi muses, and he’s not sure if she’s talking to him or to herself.

It’s Tamaki who’s always hungering for Haruhi’s home cooking, but for once Kyoya feels sympathetic to this urge. It’s chilly today, and the thought of his luxurious, hand-crafted sushi is suddenly less appealing. He wants to be eating curry rice in Haruhi’s poky little apartment.

He wants to be eating dinner with Haruhi.

He pushes his glasses up his nose and tells himself it’s perfectly normal to feel homesick when you’re ten thousand kilometres away from your whole family and your closest friends, even if you’ve been living in a foreign country for over a year, but it doesn’t help him feel better. “Curry,” he says firmly.

Haruhi laughs. “All right,” she says peaceably. “Oh! I suppose it’s dinner time for you right now. What are you going to have?”

Kyoya can’t remember. He opens up the elegant menu. “Various sushi,” he says. “Sea urchin and caviar. Foie gras, miso and yuzu. Otoro and wasabi. And so on.” 

“Yum,” Haruhi says, with a dreamy tone to her voice. “Send me some in the mail.”

“If you send me some of your curry,” he counters. “Most of the food I’ve been forced to eat over the past month is barely fit for human consumption.”

“Chicken or beef?” Haruhi asks.

“Chicken,” Kyoya says.

Haruhi’s quiet for a while, except for when she mutters an ingredient under her breath. _Carrots. Onions. Potatoes. Ginger._ Kyoya doesn’t mind; the silence is companionable, not awkward. If he closes his eyes, he can imagine her in her local grocery store, basket in one hand and the usual look of concentration on her face as she keeps an eagle eye out for a deal.

He opens his eyes again with a start when someone near his face clears their throat, and he catches the eye of a stoic-looking waiter, who’s waiting to serve him his first exquisite piece of sushi.

Kyoya nods and the waiter sets the tiny plate in front of him with a flourish, before explaining the dish. It’s topped with gold leaf. Kyoya imagines the look on Haruhi’s face if he took her to a restaurant and ordered her fatty tuna topped with gold leaf, and promptly promises himself that he’ll do it.

“Was that your dinner being served?” Haruhi asks, from somewhere in the meat aisle – he can hear her muttering _chicken_ to herself. “I should hang up. It’s rude to keep your sushi waiting.”

He doesn’t think the sushi has feelings, but he’s never used a phone in a restaurant before, so he supposes he’s being rude in general. The thought of someone he knows catching him in an impropriety is enough to sap the pleasure from the call, and Haruhi’s busy, anyway.

He ends the call and takes a photo of his plate, sending it to her before he eats the tiny morsel. It’s good enough that he’d consider returning, but nothing out of the ordinary.

_I hate you_ , Haruhi texts, so he sends her a snap of each of the eighteen different types of sushi in turn. Her reactions are more entertaining than the food itself, which is tasty but inadequate in a way he can’t explain, both authentic and yet subtly wrong. It doesn’t remind him of home.

The solo meal was somehow not the treat he’d expected it to be, he concludes as he pays the bill and steps out into the dark, lively streets outside, to be greeted by a waiting Tachibana with the car. If it hadn’t been for Haruhi, he’d have given up halfway through and gone back home.

Home.

Right now that’s a crumbling box decorated with ridiculous photos of the friends he left behind, where if he lies in bed and stretches out too widely he bangs his hand on the desk.

It’s only temporary – just as his sudden bad mood is only temporary. But that makes it no less unpleasant, while it lasts.

* * *

Kyoya wakes up late the next morning to two things: a photo from Haruhi of chicken curry rice, and an invitation from Mrs Tachibana to come round for Sunday lunch.

He leaves the first unanswered, and concentrates on the second – more immediate – issue instead. It’s the first personal invitation he’s had from the Tachibanas that he can think of. The head of his personal staff is unfailingly loyal, punctual and supportive – and maintains the appropriate social distance from his employer at all times.

If Kyoya stops to think about it, he’s relieved Tachibana’s here in Cambridge. Last year, relying on unfamiliar help was a constant irritation, but Ouran had supplied a full squad of security to guard all their international students, so it had seemed excessive to demand access to his own staff too. Having Tachibana here now is one less thing to worry about, and the small team he’s hired to support him in place of Hotta and Aijima seem sound.

Kyoya frowns at his phone for a moment, and then cancels his appointments for the next few hours, before calling Mrs Tachibana to apologise for his tardy response and tell her he will be delighted to accept her invitation. Then he showers away his tiredness and his leftover temper, and wonders who, exactly, has decided he deserves an undoubtedly awkward and overly polite meal with his employee’s family. His sister, perhaps, as punishment for not returning her calls. It is, after all, highly unlikely that this is either Mr or Mrs Tachibana’s own idea.

He works it out as soon as he arrives at the Tachibanas’ small but well-appointed apartment, to discover that Mrs Tachibana is cooking chicken curry rice. The smell winds its way through the rooms and into his nostrils, and he feels a tension inside him lessen at the nostalgic smell. Japanese curry is not something he’s ever really eaten outside of group meals with Haruhi, and it’s hardly a treat for anyone with a discerning palate, but even so.

“Thank you for inviting me,” he says politely as he hands over the large bouquet he’s picked up on the way, and Mrs Tachibana accepts it with a smile.

“Your friend Haruhi called – nice girl,” Mrs Tachibana says, “and said she thought you might be feeling a bit homesick. I hope you didn’t feel obliged to come.”

This unexpected, straightforward honesty – worthy of Haruhi herself – makes Kyoya blink, and he smiles back with more enthusiasm than he’d started.

“Of course not. You are very kind.” Homesick . . . He supposes he must be, to be longing for food he doesn’t much like. It makes him feel strange, that Haruhi can see it, from so far away, and briefly irritated that she thinks _this_ will make him feel better.

It does make him feel better, though. Tachibana makes a worthy attempt to steer the pre-lunch conversation towards Kyoya and all his many accomplishments, which Kyoya would find annoying if it wasn’t for how sincere Tachibana appears to be. Happily, his children – a boy and a girl of nine and ten respectively – are equally eager to impress, and Kyoya finds himself dragged off into their playroom to assist in a home science experiment and become the willing audience in a series of badly performed magic tricks.

Lunch itself is fine, but the family atmosphere is better. He asks the children about their new schools, and they’re eager to talk about all the new, strange American customs they’ve discovered and about their new, interesting friends. When Mrs Tachibana asks him about college, it feels more like he’s one of the children and she’s genuinely interested, rather than this being some tiresome display of servility, so he talks with enthusiasm about the things he’s learning – and with even more enthusiasm about how hideous communal living is.

This makes her laugh, and he experiences a moment of regret – he’s not exactly acting with the dignity expected of an Ootori, third son or not – but she says, “You could have got Harvard to make an exception for you, couldn’t you?”

He considers this. “Yes,” he says honestly, because accepting the accommodation is mandatory for first-years, but that doesn’t mean he actually has to _live_ there, and no one is forcing him to suffer the Berg on pain of death. He could easily eat out for all his meals. “But I didn’t want to.” He can’t put into words why not. It used to be amusing to refer to people as commoners; now he finds it rather more distasteful. Besides, everyone at Harvard, pretty much, is rich. They’re all slumming it together, for reasons he can’t entirely work out.

Mrs Tachibana seems to sense his dilemma. “You’re a good boy,” she says warmly, and serves him up a perfect portion of pink, coconut-scented mochi as Mr Tachibana beams beside her.

Is he? He’s not so sure. Still, when he’s saying his goodbyes and Mrs Tachibana asks him if he’d like to join them for lunch next Sunday too, he wants to say yes. “Are you asking out of politeness?” he asks – impolitely.

“You have to come! I want to show you my exploding volcano experiment,” Kurara insists, pulling on his sleeve, while her brother nods enthusiastically.

“As you can see, you are very welcome here,” Mrs Tachibana says warmly, and Tachibana bows so low his nose nearly touches the floor, which isn’t entirely encouraging.

But: “Then yes, thank you,” he says anyway, and is bewildered into speechlessness when Mrs Tachibana gets up and gives him a hug.

* * *

Later, Kyoya opens up his messages and looks at Haruhi’s photo of her chicken curry rice. For a long while, he can’t think of what to say.

_The meal was delicious, thank you_ , he finally sends before he falls asleep.

He wakes up to her reply: _I’m glad x_

* * *

_Tokyo_

Haruhi’s out for dinner with Mei, and she can’t work out why she feels so distracted until Mei reaches across the table to mock-hit her and says, “Who are you daydreaming about? I can smell gossip!”

“No one!” she denies.

Mei narrows her eyes and taps her brightly-lipsticked mouth with a red-varnished fingernail. “You’re not having second thoughts about Tamaki, are you?” she demands, and her expression takes on a glazed, romantic feel. “He’s so sweet – and handsome – and _rich_! I don’t know how you can’t return his feelings! He really is the perfect shoujo prince!”

Haruhi calmly takes a bite of her hamburger. “No.”

Mei does an enthusiastic fist pump. “Hope for me yet! One day I’ll wear him down into realising he likes me,” she says confidentially.

“How’s that going?” Haruhi asks with deep curiosity. She knows Tamaki and Mei exchange frequent texts. Stranger things have happened.

Mei grins. “Let’s call it a work in progress. But don’t distract me!” She tilts her head to one side. “I’d know if you’d met anyone new, so it must be one of the usual suspects.” She widens her eyes dramatically. “Don’t tell me _another_ one of them confessed! Who?!”

The situation seems to be spiralling out of control. Haruhi tries to dampen down the flames of enthusiasm – there seems an increasing danger that Renge, who has an unerring nose for romantic drama, might suddenly rise up from beneath the table to join in. “No one confessed,” she says quellingly, and Mei subsides with a disappointed pout.

Unless you count Tamaki confessing on Kyoya’s behalf, Haruhi’s brain adds, and she suddenly – inconveniently – works out why she feels so distracted. It’s Monday, so Kyoya’s probably talking to her father right now.

“You’ve gone red,” Mei points out, and slurps her drink obnoxiously. “Shall I make you a new outfit for this man you’re not in love with?”

“I’m not in love with—” Haruhi protests, and then breaks off just before she falls into the obvious trap.

“Hani?” Mei tries.

“No.”

“Mori?”

“No!”

“Hm, Kaoru already confessed, although I’m not sure you noticed,” Mei says scathingly, “so I’ll skip him.”

Haruhi blinks – _what_?

“Surely not . . . No!” Mei crows. “Not Kyoya!”

Haruhi doesn’t feel mentally ready to deal with this. “Tell me again about Kaoru,” she demands.

“Nuh-huh,” Mei says, wagging a finger. “Ask him yourself. _Rude_ , that’s what you are, Haruhi.” She takes a long, judgemental slurp of her drink. “I love you dearly, but sometimes you need to pull your head out of your backside and actually pay attention to what’s in front of you.”

That’s . . . fair, Haruhi supposes, taking a mental vow to never, ever raise the subject with Kaoru. “Tamaki said Kyoya was in love with me.”

“No way!” Mei says, her eyebrows shooting up to her hairline. “That’s great! He’s the richest of them all!” She grins. “And the rudest, underneath. You’re a perfect match!”

“But—” Haruhi starts desperately. Spiral, spiral, spiral. Mei is like a whirlwind. Next she’ll be texting Tamaki and hatching _plans_.

“I’ll make you a new dress. Something fancy. When’s he next visiting?”

“I don’t know!” Haruhi protests.

“Ah,” Mei says. “Right. I’m sorry.” She squeezes the back of Haruhi’s nearest hand. “You must miss him, right? Though I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you liked him before!”

Haruhi tries to pull herself together. “I don’t know that I do like him!” Mei just looks at her. “And Tamaki is definitely wrong about him liking _me_ that way,” she adds into the silence.

“I’ll ask him,” Mei says, picking up her heavily decaled phone.

“Don’t!” Haruhi wails, and this seems to shock Mei into actually listening to her.

“Sorry, sorry!” Mei says sheepishly. “I was getting carried away.”

Haruhi fiddles with her food for a while as Mei nibbles in silence, flicking glances at her from under her thick false eyelashes. “How do you even _know_ if you like someone that way?” Haruhi asks finally, because she’s not asking anyone else such a stupid question. Shouldn’t it be obvious?

“Well . . . do you enjoy his company?”

“Yes,” Haruhi says. She wouldn’t be friends with him if she didn’t.

“Do you think about him when he’s not there?”

“I . . . yes,” Haruhi says, feeling slightly uncomfortable admitting it. It’s not like she dwells on it, but recently she’s come to look forward to receiving his calls.

“Do you think he’s handsome?”

Haruhi considers this, and shrugs. “I suppose.” He’s Kyoya, and it’s difficult to evaluate his looks as if she didn’t know him. All of the host club boys are extremely handsome – and all extremely annoying, each in their own special way.

Mei snorts. “Do you want to kiss him?”

Haruhi feels herself go red.

“See!” Mei says.

“I’m blushing because you’re embarrassing me!” Haruhi protests.

Mei rolls her eyes. “Seventeen years old, and still such a child. Go on! Imagine it!”

Maybe she should go to college in Australia, Haruhi thinks. Somewhere where she has no friends, no family. No one who will try to embarrass her like this.

“You can try imagining it with Tamaki first,” Mei says unhelpfully. “If you like it, I promise not to kill you.”

Haruhi wrinkles her nose. The thought of kissing Tamaki is like kissing – she doesn’t know. Her brother, if she had one. Or like kissing Hani. She definitely doesn’t want to kiss Hani.

“What makes you think he doesn’t like you, anyway?” Mei asks. “If anyone would know how Kyoya feels, it’s Tamaki.”

“Well, he’s _Kyoya_ ,” Haruhi says, a little helplessly. It feels like it should be self-explanatory.

“Some kind of aristo family bullshit?” Mei says. “Yeah, I figured that might be an issue. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t fancy you, though.”

“Can we stop talking about this, please,” Haruhi says, reaching her girl-talk limit.

“For now,” Mei says unhelpfully, and turns the subject to fashion design instead.

_If anyone would know how Kyoya feels, it’s Tamaki_ fits very nicely with _You know, I think Kyoya might be in love with you too_ as things Haruhi really doesn’t want to think about, but that rattle around in her head as if they were the only things in there. The words repeat on an infinite loop as she walks home after hugging Mei goodbye, and she’s so distracted that she looks up to find she’s half a block past her own apartment building, and has to retrace her steps in confusion.

She pauses on the balcony outside her front door, and looks up at the night sky. It’s cloudy, and the streetlights cast a haze on the muffled darkness. _Does_ she want to kiss Kyoya? The thought makes her feel hot, distracted and extremely awkward. She tries to picture it – him here beside her now – and his smile is sardonic, the scene switching to the beach house from two years ago, when he’d pressed her down on his bed in an attempt to show her how powerless she really was.

She snorts. In hindsight, all it had proved was that he was an idiot – though she supposes no one covered themselves in glory that day. She’d still do the same thing again – run towards people who needed help, rather than away. Only this time, she wouldn’t let a group of annoying, rich teenage boys tell her off for it, even if they _were_ only doing it because they were worried about her. She doesn’t want to be protected – she wants someone who’ll fight right by her side.

She should have kissed Kyoya that day, she thinks wryly. That would have shown _him_. She pictures him rearing back in shock and falling off the bed. But somehow, her thoughts drift, and Kyoya’s pulling her down with him. They land in a warm, intimate tangle on the floor, his face too close to hers, and—

OK, OK, Haruhi thinks gloomily, Mei’s tanned, grinning face mentally interrupting the action with an ‘I told you so!’ She wouldn’t go so far as to say she was _definitely_ in love with Kyoya. But she’d be stupid not to be open to the possibility that she could be.

It makes her recent odd decisions more understandable, she supposes as she unlocks the front door and calls, “I’m home!” Why else would she have asked Tamaki for Fuyumi Ootori’s phone number, and approached her – a married, older stranger – for help? Happily, Fuyumi had proved all too keen to provide Mrs Tachibana’s phone number, and Mrs Tachibana had in turn proved all too keen to invite her husband’s young employer round to eat chicken curry rice. It had all worked out in the end. But it had still been a strange thing to do, Haruhi supposes. Strange – if Kyoya was just a casual friend.

“Haruhi!” her father calls, running to greet her, and nearly knocking her off her feet with the strength of his enthusiasm. “Welcome home!”

Haruhi kisses him on the cheek and squirms out of his grasp. “Did you eat?”

“Yes, I had a lonely dinner all by myself,” her father sniffs.

“Mei sends her love,” Haruhi says unsympathetically, and her father brightens.

“Kyoya said to say hello,” he says, and it takes every effort Haruhi has not to blush. “I have great news!” he adds, and lunges at her as if he’s going to try to pick her up and swing her round.

Haruhi dodges. “What?” she asks, taking off her coat.

“Kyoya is buying our apartment building! Or rather, his investment company is,” her father says, clasping his hands together. “He’s going to upgrade the terrible air conditioning, and redo the insulation on the roof, and fix the dodgy windows, and . . .”

Haruhi lets her father talk and wonders whether she feels mad or not. She can’t decide. The host club are, in general, reasonably good about keeping their money in their own pockets, when she knows they’d shower her with it, given the slightest excuse. She’s never got that impression with Kyoya before, though. He’s not stingy – far from it – but when he invests, it’s never from the goodness of his heart. He always wants something in return.

“And, of course, it will be wonderful to have such a handsome landlord,” her father ends, his eyes full-on hearts.

“I wonder why,” she says, out loud.

Her father looks disconcerted. “Why what?”

“Why he decided to buy _this_ apartment building,” she says with what she feels is excessive patience. “And not, say, the next one along.”

“Oh, he bought that one too,” her father says, to her surprise. “He bought the whole street. Weren’t you listening? He said it was a good investment, but I think he wants to make sure we’re more comfortable, and this was the only way he felt was appropriate to do it. You know, I thought Tamaki was my favourite of your handsome friends, but Kyoya is . . . Are you all right, sweetheart?”

She _is_ in love with Kyoya, damn it! The interfering, ridiculous, overbearing, pompous—

“He was sorry not to talk to you today,” her father says, regarding her with a look that suggests he can see right through her. “You must send him a gift to say thank you for his generosity to us.”

“Must I?” Haruhi says plaintively. She doesn’t want to send him a present to say thank you for being rich enough, and annoying enough, to buy her home and make it better. It’s a step so far over all her boundaries, he might as well be leaping into outer space.

“Yes,” her father says inexorably.

“What kind of gift?” she asks, hoping that his inability to pin this down will make the whole terrible thing go away.

But her father makes a _pfff_ sound and waves a hand dismissively. “I’m sure Tamaki will help if you can’t think of anything,” he says. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Tamaki . . . who loves her, and yet told her that _Kyoya_ loves her. Haruhi’s brain waves at her, reminding her that Mei said _Kaoru_ had confessed too. When? And how had she not _noticed_? It’s clear her life already resembles some kind of farce. So she might as well introduce Tamaki and his terrible gift choices into the mix, she thinks, developing a headache.

After all, things can hardly get worse.


	5. (Make a) Wish.com

_Tokyo_

It’s late afternoon on a chilly but fine early October Tuesday, and on the top floor of Ouran Academy’s south wing, in an allegedly abandoned music room at the end of the north hallway . . . a meeting of the host club is in session.

Haruhi’s not entirely sure why. Probably because no one’s thought to stop them.

“Everyone knows I’m a girl, senpai,” Haruhi had told Tamaki as he and the twins advanced on her with a ridiculous steampunk inspired Victorian ballgown, all corset and cogs. “Are you sure it’s OK for me to still be a host?”

Tamaki had shot her a dark look, from under his top hat and brass googles. “Being a girl is no problem in these modern, liberated times, Haruhi,” he’d said with a shudder. “Remember the Zuka Club.”

Now, she supposes he had a point. She’s been requested more than Tamaki today, which is lucky, because he’s doing that thing again where he hides behind the sofa to watch her, his eyes big and sad . . . except for when he hides them behind his cell phone, to take another, almost certainly terrible, pic. Who’s even paying for the tea and cake today? It’s probably coming out of Tamaki’s own pocket, she thinks affectionately. He never was any good at the practical side of the club, after all.

It’s hard not to think about Kyoya when she’s doing host club business. And if she’s honest, it’s hard not to think about Kyoya full stop. It’s understandable, though, isn’t it? Given that it was only yesterday _she realised_ _she_ _might be in love with him_.

“Are you feeling OK, Haruhi-kun?” one of the girls at her table asks, and Haruhi realises she’s gone red.

She smiles instead, and the girls go even redder. It’s all a bit ridiculous. “I feel great sitting with you all,” she says, because it _is_ fun even if it’s stupid, and they dissolve into happy squeals.

When the girls are all gone, and the host club have changed back into their own clothes, Tamaki stretches out along a couch and puts his hand to his brow. “I miss Kyoya,” he says with infinite gloom. “We put on a wonderful event – the host club sparkled – but it wasn’t the same.”

“There wasn’t enough cake,” Hani says, matching Tamaki gloom for gloom.

Mori’s expression flickers imperceptibly – there was plenty of cake before Hani ate it all – and Haruhi hides her smile with a cough.

“Has Kyoya replied to _anyone’s_ messages?” Tamaki demands, suddenly recovering himself to sit bolt upright. “I send him _dozens_ every day, and I haven’t heard from him for at least a week! Are we sure he’s alive?”

“You think he’s dead, milord?” Kaoru and Hikaru chime in unison, sitting forward in their chairs with expressions of ghoulish interest.

“He hasn’t replied to us either!” Kaoru adds, as if that’s conclusive proof.

Tamaki falls into what appears to be a dead faint, apart from the fact that he’s peeking.

“His family would tell us if he’d died, wouldn’t they?” Hani says, his eyes widening as he clutches Usa-chan tight to his chest.

“Yes,” Mori agrees, but he looks faintly worried.

“Maybe we should ask N-N-N-Nekozawa to c-c-commune with his s-s-spirit,” Tamaki says from his prone position, with portentous dread. The atmosphere crackles with . . .

Stupidity. “He’s not dead,” Haruhi says firmly, before this tragic play in one act can go any further.

“O-ho!” Tamaki says, shooting upright again and leaning forward. “How do you know?”

“Because he spoke to my father only last night,” Haruhi says, managing to keep her voice level under Tamaki’s gimlet gaze. He can be strangely perceptive sometimes, and right now she _really_ doesn’t want to be perceived.

“A hired imposter?” Tamaki suggests hopefully.

“He told my father he’d bought every apartment building in my street. An investment opportunity,” she says into Tamaki’s wide-eyed stare. “He plans improvements.”

Tamaki appears briefly struck dumb, and then pulls himself together. “Sounds like Kyoya,” he says gloomily, slouching back against the sofa. “He must be alive after all.”

“That’s a _good_ thing, milord,” Kaoru points out.

“Isn’t it?” Hikaru adds unkindly.

“Of course!” Tamaki roars, emerging from his torpor. “Only . . .” His lower lip wobbles. “He bought Haruhi’s house without me. He’s going to make her commoner home _better_ , just like we planned!” He turns to her, and gives her a hurt, pitiful stare, as if she’s stabbed him in the heart.

Just like we _planned_? Haruhi tries not to twitch. “I didn’t ask him to!”

Tamaki clasps his hands together, and presses them against his heart. “I forgive him!” he pronounces. “He was just expressing his pure and honest feel—”

Haruhi doesn’t like where _that_ sentence is going. “My father said I should get him a present to say thank you for looking after me and my neighbours,” she interrupts hastily, as the twins look first at each other, then at Tamaki, and finally at her with glimmers of suspicion. “I’m not sure what to choose. What do you think, senpai?”

“I am honoured that you trust me with such an important mission!” Tamaki says, with real tears in his eyes. “Let us form a team!”

“We don’t want to form a team,” Kaoru and Hikaru chime.

Mori stands up and picks up Hani. “We have practise,” he says.

“Good luck, Haru-chan!” Hani says from his lofty position on Mori’s shoulders.

Tamaki turns to Haruhi, his fists clenched in determination. “We don’t need them anyway! I have a much better idea.”

Which is how Haruhi ends up in the Ootori mansion, sitting under a kotatsu with Tamaki and Fuyumi, as the two idiots – she’s only just met Fuyumi, but she went along with the chicken curry rice plan, and she’s clearly good friends with Tamaki, so Haruhi’s confident in this conclusion – discuss whether to send Kyoya one box of Hokkaido Melon KitKats . . . or two.

None, would be Haruhi’s choice. She doesn’t like to interrupt though. Not when the other two are having so much fun. Kyoya’s older sister may be an idiot, but she’s also warm and friendly. Haruhi looks forward to knowing her better, even though this is all a little weird.

She can hear her phone buzz in her pocket, and she tries not to react. It’s probably Kyoya, ringing for their usual chat. She’s both glad of the excuse to miss his call and disappointed, all at once. She’s not sure if she can be normal in front of him just yet.

Fuyumi turns, though, and narrows her eyes. “That’s not my annoying little brother, is it?” she asks suspiciously.

Haruhi, under such a searchlight gaze, feels compelled to look – and finds, of course, that it is. She nods, and Fuyumi turns back to Tamaki, indignation painted across her face. “I send him messages every day and he never replies! All I want to know is how he’s getting on and that’s doing OK!”

“Same!” Tamaki says, gazing at Fuyumi with enormous heart-eyes, and they clasp hands in mutual annoyance and despair.

Haruhi’s phone buzzes again, and Fuyumi turns back to say, “Put him on speakerphone!”

Cringing slightly, Haruhi does, and when she opens her mouth to explain that Tamaki and Fuyumi are with her, the other two both speak at once.

“Fuyumi?” Kyoya says, sounding a little irritated. “Why are you annoying my friend?”

“She’s not annoying me!” Tamaki replies.

Kyoya snorts.

“I’m very sorry, senpai,” Haruhi says sheepishly.

Kyoya sighs. “Don’t worry about it. I know what they’re like. Fuyumi, I’m still alive. Tamaki, you’re an idiot. Haruhi?”

Haruhi tries not to blush. “Yes?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.” He hangs up, and for a long moment they all listen to the dial tone.

“I love my little brother dearly, but does he _deserve_ a box of Hokkaido Melon KitKats?” Fuyumi muses.

Tamaki hums in thought, and then shoots a sidelong glance at Haruhi. “Let’s send him two.”

* * *

_Cambridge_

The latest text from his interfering older sister reads: _Haruhi’s lovely._

Why is Fuyumi pointing out something so useless? Kyoya knows Haruhi’s lovely. That’s why Tamaki’s in love with her. That’s why pretty much _everyone he knows_ is in love with her. _Yes_ , he replies anyway, and feels strangely irritable when she sends him back a string of hearts. _Leave her alone_ , he adds.

_Nope_ , Fuyumi replies. _Love you too!_

Kyoya rolls his eyes and puts down his phone. His head hurts, and he can’t tell if he’s just overtired after too many days of waking to an early alarm, or if he’s caught a cold. He pushes down his glasses to massage his bridge of his nose, then picks his phone up again and rings Haruhi. For once, he’s not in the mood for a video call.

He feels better just hearing her voice, even though she leads with the unappealing, “I have to warn you, Tamaki’s sending you another present, though this time it’s allegedly from me.”

“Oh?” he manages, lying back down on his bed.

“Two boxes of Hokkaido Melon KitKats.”

It could be worse, he supposes. There are plenty of fellow Harvard inmates who have no taste. He can offload them easily enough. “Why are you sending me a present?”

“Ah,” Haruhi says, and he can hear her rustling as she makes herself more comfortable.

She’s probably in her room, he thinks, and closes his eyes. God, he’s tired.

“Dad said I should send you a present to say thank you for taking care of our community,” she says bluntly. “I wasn’t sure what to send, so Tamaki and Fuyumi were kind enough to help.”

“Community?” he echoes, feeling amused.

“Buying up the buildings,” she clarifies. “Your maintenance plans.” She doesn’t sound too impressed, but it’s a much better reaction than he’d expected, all in all. “Thank you, I suppose,” she adds, and ah, yes, _now_ she sounds a bit like she wants to punch him.

“I didn’t do it for a thank you,” he says bracingly. “I did it for the healthy profit margin.”

“Did you?” she asks.

It’s not really a yes or no answer. He shrugs, but she can’t see him. “Partly,” he says, and for a while all he can hear is her breathing. Better than swearing. She’ll be glad he’s done it in the end.

“I—” she starts, and to his embarrassment he cuts her off with an enormous yawn.

“When’s your first class?” she asks.

He tries to remember. “Two, I think.”

“I see,” she says, and sounds unusually awkward. He has no idea why. But she carries on talking – something mind-numbing about different compost types the gardening club is trialling for their vegetables – and he relaxes as he listens to a conversation he’s clearly not expected to take an active part in. It’s unusually restful, and he really is so very tired.

He wakes up at one to a smart knock at the door, and he almost feels refreshed, until he realises he’s fallen asleep on Haruhi. His phone’s still in his hand, and his glasses are cutting painfully into his face.

He struggles up, and Tachibana says through the door, “Master Kyoya? Are you awake? Can I come in?”

He manages to say an almost human “Good morning” when Tachibana sticks his head round the door, and then shoos him out again. Before he forces himself to get up and shower, though, first he forces himself to look at his phone.

_Next time, I’ll get up early instead,_ Haruhi sent, somewhere around the time he must have fallen asleep. _Sorry to make you bear the burden! Have a good day x_

Compost . . . He has an odd memory of her talking about compost, her voice quiet and matter of fact. His brain attempts to draw a conclusion, and when he does, he isn’t sure if he likes the effect it has on his insides.

He stumbles over to the door and opens it; Tachibana stands to attention on the other side.

“Who asked you to come and wake me up?” Kyoya demands.

Tachibana smiles, very wide. “Miss Fujioka, sir! She was worried you’d miss your afternoon class.”

It’s the reply he’d expected, but it still makes his chest feel peculiar. He doesn’t have time to think about it now, though. He has too many things to do.

* * *

_Tokyo_

The Hokkaido Melon KitKats arrive at their destination safely. Haruhi knows this because Kyoya sends her a photo of a large group of cheerful-looking students, all waving their chocolate bars, set against the backdrop of what she presumes is the infamous Berg dining hall.

_How do they taste?_ she replies.

_I have absolutely no idea._

She’s not expecting a return gift, and she’s part amused, part infuriated, when she receives an unexpected call from Akito Ootori, the middle of Kyoya’s brothers. He informs her that Kyoya has requested he give her an introductory lesson in traditional Japanese gift etiquette, and invites her to lunch at the Ootori mansion to receive it.

Haruhi considers this, and then accepts.

_Did you learn anything interesting?_ Kyoya asks after it’s all over.

_Yes_ , Haruhi sends. The world of high-level business gift etiquette is far more intricate and treacherous than she’d ever suspected. She wonders if Kyoya meant for his sarcastic return gift to be genuinely interesting. Whether he thought Akito _could_ be genuinely interesting. She can’t work out how Kyoya feels about his brothers. It’s all too caught up in sibling rivalry and ambition to be straightforward.

_Akito_ had learned something interesting too, though: that his little brother was using him to take the piss. Haruhi absolutely hadn’t meant to tell him; to her alarm, Fuyumi had done it instead.

Haruhi’s only met Akito briefly before their recent lunch. It comes as a surprise, therefore, how readily he joins the ‘Let’s Send Kyoya the Presents He Deserves!’ club, invited by the club’s newly appointed president himself, Tamaki Suoh, and seconded by Vice President Fuyumi. She’d got the impression Akito was dutiful to the point of dullness, and only cared about Kyoya to the extent that his little brother might show him up if he did badly. She’s glad to discover she was wrong.

Over the next few weeks, Haruhi – guided by the LSKTPHD club – sends Kyoya a variety of wildly ridiculous things. Tamaki has, it appears, discovered a shopping app that nearly kills him with its variety of wondrous, amazing items – “Used by commoners all around the world, Haruhi!!!” She doesn’t have the heart to tell him that they’re not used by any ‘commoners’ _she’s_ ever met.

And each time she sends Kyoya a gift, Kyoya . . . sends her something in return.

A mouse mat featuring a frog with a large, 3D backside – for preventing RSI, Tamaki claims with a straight face – gets her an invitation to a lunch meeting with a law student currently studying at Ouran University: Mori. Haruhi not only has a lovely time, but she also has a _useful_ time. She’s never heard Mori talk so much before. When Mori asks if she’d like to catch up regularly to talk law studies, with a sheepish apology for not offering before, she accepts with genuine pleasure.

She smiles so much at Kyoya on their next video call that she feels awkward, and the atmosphere seems to be catching. He can’t look her in the eye, until he does – and her heart beats so fast she can still feel the after-effects, long after she’s hung up. She tries not to think about it too much. It’s no good for her constitution.

A miniature recreation of the wreck of the _Titanic,_ suitable for a large aquarium – Kyoya loves fish! Tamaki cheerfully insists – gets her a math study guide, annotated with Kyoya’s neat, strong hand, targeting all her weak points.

(“Thanks for knowing all my weak points, senpai,” Haruhi says next time she speaks to Kyoya.

He raises a shoulder in a half-shrug and his lips twitch. “They won’t be weak points for much longer if you put some effort in.”)

A pencil case in the shape of a carp – because Kyoya must be _missing_ his fish, Tamaki sighs mournfully, on learning that the Harvard dorms are sadly lacking in large aquariums – gets her a promise that Kyoya will only speak in English on their phone calls from now on, for the sake of her IELTS exam.

(“But I like talking to you in Japanese,” she says – in Japanese.

“Yes,” he replies in English. “I know.”)

When Tamaki buys them each a pyjama set emblazoned with Colonel Sanders’ face though, and threatens to make them all wear it at Christmas as they eat the traditional commoners’ Christmas meal of KFC, Haruhi realises it’s time to take away Tamaki’s internet. Still, it’s no easier to say “no” to him than it ever was, and now she has Fuyumi and Akito to contend with as well.

“Akito’s never enjoyed himself so much,” Fuyumi confides in her with a grin at the next meeting of the LSKTPHD club.

Akito frowns at them both from across the kotatsu. “I am merely interested in the economics and business models used by global ecommerce applications. Besides, there is much to learn from real-world research,” he adds with a sniff, and goes back to swiping through pictures of dubious medical appliances and outfits designed for small dogs, with Tamaki keeping an interested and excitable watch over his shoulder.

“This is it! The perfect thing!” Tamaki shouts, and as one, all the eyes round the table turn to stare at Haruhi for her go-ahead. She can’t quite bring herself to look and see what they’ve chosen. But happily, just as she’s about to melt under pressure, like an ice-cream under a hot sun, Mrs Tachibana calls and provides her with the perfect excuse.

“Did you know that Mr Tachibana keeps and treasures all the gifts that Tamaki sends Kyoya and Kyoya throws away?” Haruhi says mercilessly after she’s hung up. “Mrs Tachibana says that as much as she loves the replica of the _Titanic,_ and it looks perfect on her mantelpiece, taking up all the space that should be there for her family photos, she’d appreciate it if we could send him _smaller_ gifts in future.”

After they’ve scraped Tamaki up from the floor, and applied copious tissues to his copious tears, President Tamaki disbands the ‘Let’s Send Kyoya The Presents He Deserves!’ club. “He doesn’t deserve my presents!” he says, nonsensically, and consents to let Haruhi serve him a large slice of cake.

He soon cheers up, but he seems sad enough underneath that Haruhi feels a bit guilty. That makes two of them, though. Not about the presents, exactly. But she’s feeling increasingly uncomfortable about sending Kyoya tat and receiving such thoughtful, _useful_ gifts in return. She’s not deluded enough to see anything romantic in his presents – a math textbook and some English conversation practise is hardly diamonds and flowers. Not that she wants diamonds and flowers! But she can see his heart in his gifts. While in hers she can see . . . Tamaki’s.

No, she thinks, taking a thoughtful sip of tea and only half-listening as Tamaki and Fuyumi launch into an excitable conversation about their next commoner food tasting experience. Mrs Tachibana’s troubles aside, it was definitely time to put a stop to the Tamaki-gifts. And besides – she’s finally thought of the _real_ thank you present she wants to send.

* * *

_Cambridge_

_Haruhi’s REALLY lovely_ , Fuyumi messages him.

_Yes_ , Kyoya thinks, and turns off his phone.

When it turns it back on later, in a snatched break between study group and tutorial, there’s another message waiting for him. _Do you like her?_

He can feel a headache coming on. _Of course_ , he replies, to forestall further nonsense. _She’s my friend._

He watches her type, then pause, then type, then pause. No message comes through. “It’s the middle of the night,” he points out when she answers after the first ring. “Stop annoying me, big sister, and go to sleep.”

“I know,” she agrees, “but I _can’t_ sleep. I think the baby’s keeping me awake,” she says, and there’s an odd, bubbling tone to her voice, as if she can’t sit still.

He blinks, startled. Baby?

“I’m four months along. You’re the first person I’ve told – apart from Daichi, of course! He’s desperate for a boy, but I’m secretly hoping it’s a girl. Don’t tell him I said that!”

His bad mood vanishes in an instant, to be replaced by something much, much warmer. “Congratulations,” he says.

“Thank you.” He can feel her smiling at him. “I could ask Haruhi, if you want.”

The headache slots firmly back into place. “Ask her what?”

“If she likes you.”

“ _Don’t_ ,” he says, so quickly he regrets it. Fuyumi can be irritatingly perceptive where he’s concerned, and she’s very good at not listening when she thinks she’s in the right. He loves her very much, but she drives him mad. This isn’t a matter where he appreciates her interference.

“Those gifts you’ve been sending her . . .” Fuyumi says tentatively. “Little brother, you bought her _apartment_. I just want to help. I think she—”

“If you don’t drop this right now I’ll never speak to you again,” Kyoya says flatly, feeling the overreaction even as he says it, but unable to stop himself. “It’s none of your business.”

But Fuyumi just laughs. “Sorry, sorry,” she says. “Don’t get mad. Akito is impressed by her, if he hasn’t already told you. You wanted his opinion too, right? That’s why you arranged for him to meet her properly. I think—”

“ _Fuyumi_!” he interrupts, because she’s adding two plus two and making five hundred. That’s . . . that’s not what he was doing, he thinks, the headache squeezing. Was it?

To his deep relief, though, she takes the hint and turns the subject back to herself. They don’t talk long – he has a class to get to, and she should be resting – but he ends the call feeling both happy and unsettled. A _baby_. He’s going to be an uncle. He’s happy for her – so happy. But underneath it, he’s aware of something he wishes he could turn off. Could forget about.

Longing.

And also a gentle kind of terror, that if he examines the feeling too closely, he’ll know exactly what – or who – he’s longing _for_.


	6. A tale of two dinners – Part 1

_Cambridge: Mid October_

When Kyoya drags himself out of bed to either switch off his iPad alarm or smash the fucking thing to smithereens – will he _ever_ be able to get up early without serious pain? – it’s to see a letter on the floor.

He regards it without excitement. His roommates gawped when the first final-club invitation was slid under his door a couple of weeks ago. Apparently, only sophomores are punched, which puts him a full year ahead of schedule. He’s flattered, he supposes. He doesn’t believe the clubs hold much worth, but they hold _enough_. American families have the balance of power here, naturally, but it’s pleasing to discover that even so far from home Ootori is a name to conjure with. There’s also a non-zero chance, he supposes, that the gold star nipple trial has worked its own peculiar social magic.

So far, he’s been punched five times.

It’s enough that it’s become tedious. Each club has a multi-round process, involving a time-consuming number of social events that continue until, he supposes, one passes muster. He excels at socialising, even with the minor language barrier, but he’s attended so many parties and ‘informal’ lunches in the last fortnight that he’s sick to death of them, and his calendar is already clogged up with what feels like hundreds more.

Several of the upcoming events are formal – and require dates. The thought of it makes him feel sour and antisocial. He can easily find someone to accompany him; there are a number of highly suitable women already in his contacts’ list. He just doesn’t want to.

When he bends down to pick the invitation up, though, it doesn’t look the same as the others. His name is written in neat kanji, rather than romaji, and the envelope feels cheap and lacks the wax seal that indicates it’s club business. He opens it up, and inside is a slightly blurred print-out of a photo of the contents of a fridge shelf, a recipe for chicken curry rice and a letter written in the same neat hand as on the envelope, offering him the use of her kitchen on Saturday night, as long as he promises to load the dishwasher after. It’s signed Mrs Tachibana, and the postscript reads: _Call Haruhi!_

He was going to call Haruhi anyway. That’s the whole reason – the _only_ reason – he’s up at this ungodly hour.

“Are you actually free on Saturday?” Haruhi asks without preamble, the screen freezing for a moment and the audio crackling before the connection catches up. She’s sitting in her living room this time, and Kyoya can hear Ranka singing along to a pop song on the radio in the background. “Sorry, I know you’re busy. Only, it won’t work on a weekday because there’s not enough time before I have to go to school, and I can’t do the day before because Dad has a late shift and I don’t want to be noisy in the morning and accidentally wake him up.”

Kyoya feels like he’s missed a vital clue somewhere. “Is this from you?” he asks, holding the invitation to the webcam. He presumes Tachibana delivered it, and is, even now, lurking about in the hall, ready to begin work.

Haruhi nods. “Yes,” she says. “It’s a present. Tamaki wasn’t involved!” she adds with a grin, possibly seeing him twitch. “This is my _actual_ present to you, to say thank you for being a rich, controlling nightmare of a friend. Apparently the workmen are starting work on insulating and repairing all the window frames next week, to prepare for winter. If it’s noisy, I suppose at least I know exactly who to complain to.”

He feels an overwhelming urge to laugh, but manages to suppress it. “You’re welcome,” he says drily. “What _is_ the present, exactly?”

“Oh!” she says, her brow clearing. “I’m going to teach you how to cook chicken curry rice.”

He considers this. “And that’s a present?”

“Yes!” she says with a grin. “Knowing how to cook is a useful life skill. Unless you already know how?”

He has staff for that. “I’m highly talented at ordering from a menu,” he says, feeling amused.

Haruhi rolls her eyes. “If you think you can’t do it . . .”

“What time is Mrs Tachibana expecting me to lay waste to her kitchen?” Kyoya asks mildly. “I could always hire one for the day, you know.”

“I want her on hand in case you set yourself on fire,” Haruhi says, deadpan. “I thought seven o’clock? Does that work for you?”

Kyoya reaches for his iPad and pulls up his appointments calendar. He’s booked solid all day; all things that will be difficult to cancel. There’s a good chance that if he misses the Porcellian Club dinner he won’t make the final cut, and it’s the most appropriate club for someone of his background, even if it’s not the most personally appealing. It was founded by a group of students who wanted to avoid the dining halls; that, at least, is something he can agree with.

He suppresses a sigh. “Seven is fine,” he says, making a note to send the club his apologies. Is he being foolish? He considers it briefly, before concluding that any club will be lucky to have him as a member. It may be wiser to join a less old-fashioned, more inclusive club, in any case. “Do I need to bring anything?”

“Yourself,” Haruhi says cheerfully. “And your laptop,” she adds.

One good thing about this ‘present’, at least, Kyoya muses, is that it provides the opportunity for him to fix something that’s been irritating him for several weeks. “You’re blurry,” he says.

Haruhi looks disconcerted. “Sorry?”

“It’s probably your broadband connection. Though – are you still using that laptop Hikaru bought you?”

“Yes,” Haruhi says, looking slightly suspicious – and still slightly pixelated.

“Fine,” he says, making another note on his iPad.

“Senpai . . .” Haruhi starts, a warning note clear in her voice. “I don’t need a new laptop.”

Kyoya turns off his iPad and fixes her with his brightest host-club smile. “Understood. So, tell me about your day,” he says, and happily Haruhi accepts the change of subject with relatively good grace.

* * *

_Tokyo_

The next day, roughly a thousand workmen start digging up the street.

Haruhi stares at their van as she leaves the house on her way to school. The writing on the side reads: _Rakuten Broadband Premium – The fastest consumer broadband line Japan has to offer!_

When she gets home, the workmen have nearly finished. There’s paperwork on the table, addressed to her father, informing him that fibre-optic cable is being laid down and connected to all the buildings in the street, and as an apology for the inconvenience, all residents will receive compensation. A year’s free high-speed broadband.

Has Kyoya _bought Rakuten_? Haruhi decides it’s best for her blood pressure not to ask. She confines herself to simply sending him a message: _Senpai, sometimes you are really, really annoying_.

Kyoya just sends back a smiley face.

* * *

_Cambridge_

Mrs Tachibana takes his coat and then offers him an apron. “You don’t want to get your nice suit dirty,” she says with a twinkle in her eye, before showing him round her kitchen and demonstrating how the stove works. “Wifi password is on the fridge.”

“I’m sorry, this must be very inconvenient,” he says, a little flustered, as she explains she’s taking the kids out for the evening and will be back around ten, if that’s OK? “Please don’t feel you need to leave your own house on my account.”

She smiles at him. “Say hello to Haruhi for me,” she says, before ushering her family out of the door and leaving him alone.

Kyoya looks at the apron neatly folded on the kitchen counter, and then down at himself, experiencing a momentary – and uncharacteristic – flash of doubt. Is he overdressed? He shucks off his suit jacket and undoes the top button of his shirt, before removing his cufflinks and rolling up his sleeves. The apartment is comfortably warm, despite the chill outside, so it’s not a hardship. He glances at himself in the murky reflection of the steel kitchen splashback and thinks he looks nervous, which is ridiculous.

He busies himself by starting up his laptop and connecting to Wi-Fi, waiting impatiently as Skype loads and then joining the pre-arranged meeting room. Haruhi’s not there yet, and he spends a few minutes pacing, opening drawers and starting to hope he doesn’t manage to cut his fingers off. How hard can it be?

When Haruhi connects, she’s crystal clear, and the nervous feeling intensifies for a brief, horrible moment as he looks at her. Unusually for her, she’s wearing something that actually makes her look like a girl, and he finds the effect disconcerting. He knows she’s pretty – it’s not a _surprise_ , as such – but it’s not often she dresses in a way that draws attention to it.

“Can you hear me OK?” she says.

“Perfectly,” he says, a little smugly, and she rolls her eyes. He considers things carefully, and decides it would be odd if he didn’t say anything about her appearance. He is – was – the host club’s shadow king, after all. “You look—”

She jumps a little, her cheeks pinking up, and her hair swings across her face in her haste to cut him off. “Dad’s hidden half my clothes for some reason,” she complains, and from somewhere distant Kyoya can hear Ranka call:

“But now you look so cuuuuute! Doesn’t she, Kyoya?”

_Yes_ , Kyoya thinks, _very_ , but he considers it would be unhelpful to admit it.

“So,” Haruhi says very brightly, as if Ranka hadn’t interrupted, “shall we get started?”

Kyoya, trying hard to get his unwanted, inconvenient thoughts under control, thinks that would be a very good idea.

* * *

He ends up wearing the apron.

“Have I got curry roux in my actual _hair_?” he asks with amused resignation as Haruhi vanishes from view, presumably because she can’t stop laughing.

“No,” her disembodied voice lies.

He should have worn a black shirt. It’s not as if cooking is hard, exactly; he’d be embarrassed to be so useless. Up till now, he’s managed well, watching Haruhi demonstrate how to chop, peel, cut and grate, and repeating her actions quite competently. But he’s not used to controlling the heat, and the fragrant liquid in the heavy pot went from a gentle boil to what he can only describe as a farting geyser in under ten seconds, splattering him in brown-yellow liquid.

He takes off his glasses to clean them on a tea towel, and when he puts them back on it’s to find Haruhi’s back on screen, her lips twitching. “Sorry, senpai,” she apologies, bowing down very low. “I am an inadequate teacher.”

“I’ll send you my dry-cleaning bill,” he says out of habit, but she just grins.

When the food is ready, and the rice cooker beeps, he serves himself up a plate and sits down at Mrs Tachibana’s kitchen table. Haruhi grins, and picks up her phone to take a picture.

“A screenshot would work better,” he says as he prods dubiously at the curry with a spoon, and he looks up to smile obligingly as she takes his advice. He’s still wearing the apron, he realises, and he probably still has curry sauce in his hair. “If you send that to anyone else, by the way, I will fly home next weekend just to take my revenge.”

“All right,” she says, and although her expression is steady, her cheeks start to colour up.

She really is lovely, he thinks, and feels a wave of tiredness wash over him, even though it’s barely half past eight. He longs to go home with an intensity that convinces him he absolutely mustn’t. He should have accepted the Porcellian Club invitation for tonight, he thinks, staring down at his gently-steaming plate. He must be mad.

“How does it taste?” she asks, and he comes back to reality with a start.

“ _Itadakimasu_ ,” he says out of habit, and shoots her a sidelong glance. “That’s not an excuse to start talking in Japanese again,” he adds, to her eye-roll, and then tries a small spoonful, blowing on it first until it’s less volcanic. It tastes . . . fine. Slightly better than the worst of the Berg dining options, slightly less edible than when Haruhi cooks it. And yet, somehow, it’s the best food he’s had in months. “It’s good,” he says, after a second tentative spoonful. “Thank you.”

Haruhi looks fond. “I’m glad. Hang on, let me grab a plate.”

To his bemusement, she also dishes herself up some of her own, demonstration curry, and sits down with a spoon. It’s early Sunday morning in Japan right now. The traditional Japanese breakfast of miso soup, fish, omelette, rice and pickles is a savoury one, he supposes, but eating curry at seven thirty a.m. takes it to new limits. “Are you sure you want to do that?” he asks, raising his eyebrows.

She blinks at him. “How can we eat dinner together if you’re the only one eating?” she asks, which would be a very good question if she hadn’t invited him for a cooking lesson rather than to dinner. But if she only invited him for a cooking lesson, why did he wear such a good suit? At least, it _used_ to be a good suit.

“Go ahead then, it’s your own taste-buds you’re mauling,” he says lightly, and takes another mouthful.

“ _Pleasing_ , not mauling,” she corrects. “Your English vocabulary is terrible, senpai.”

He rolls his eyes, and time passes too quickly as they eat, and talk – in Japanese, but he lets her off this time – and before he knows it Mrs Tachibana and her family are back. The kids laugh at him, and to his horror Mrs Tachibana attacks him with a damp sponge.

“Now you’re an expert chef, you can help me prepare Sunday lunch in future,” she says cheerfully.

Kyoya considers this, and discovers that he doesn’t actually mind. “Of course,” he says, and when she starts laughing, and protesting that she was only joking, he decides that he’ll insist.

“See you tomorrow, you terrible child,” Mrs Tachibana says cheerfully, and shoos him out of her apartment and into the car. He tries to protest – he hasn’t cleaned the kitchen yet – but to his secret pleasure she lets him off the hook. He doesn’t mind learning new menial skills on occasion, but he’s content to let the secrets of the dishwasher remain a mystery forever.

“Nice evening, sir?” Tachibana inquires as he drives.

“Yes, very,” Kyoya says. “Thank you again for letting me invade your home like that,” he adds politely.

Tachibana’s face, reflected in the mirror, shows nothing but affection. “A real pleasure, sir!” he says, as if it was Kyoya who’d done him the favour, rather than the reverse. “That Haruhi’s a lovely girl, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Kyoya says, “she is.”

When he gets home, he checks his phone to find Haruhi’s sent him the screenshot she took. He looks a mess.

He looks _happy_.

He’s used to smiling, of course – his charming host-club smile; his polite business smile; his fixed, irritated smile; his ‘I’m going to kill you any moment now’ smile. He has a smile for every occasion. He can’t remember the last time he saw his _genuine_ smile though. In this particular photo, he barely recognises himself.

She’s sent it to basically everyone, he notes, as the messages from his sister, from the Hitachiins, from Hani and Mori – there’s even a sniffy one from Akito, telling him to be careful not to make a fool of himself and bring shame on the Ootori name – all come flooding through. Does she _want_ him to come home?

Tamaki’s calling him, he sees. He lets the phone buzz in his hand, strangely reluctant to pick up, and then he leaves it too long and the phone quietens.

_It was just a cooking lesson_ , he sends to Tamaki once he’s said goodnight to Tachibana and is safely inside. _Don’t worry about it._

He half expects Tamaki to ring back again, but he doesn’t, and a few minutes later a text comes through. _Are you coming home for a visit soon? It’s your birthday next month. Fuyumi suggested we throw you a family party. You could invite Haruhi._

That’s . . . Even if his father wasn’t so busy, and unlikely to make time to attend something so pointless, Kyoya finds there are no words to describe quite how strongly he doesn’t want to attend a party made up of his family, Tamaki and Haruhi.

He doesn’t want to be in the same _room_ as Tamaki and Haruhi until they’ve made their inevitable announcement, and he’s had some time to work on his ‘many congratulations’ smile.

He wants . . .

He—

_No_ , he thinks. He is not going to do this. He loves Tamaki too much – and Tamaki loves Haruhi.

That Kyoya himself is, apparently, head over fucking heels for Haruhi too, he realises, is neither here nor there.

Kyoya sits on the edge of his bed for a while, staring blankly at the wall. _Fuck_ , he thinks. Fuck fuck fuck fuck _fuck._

His phone’s ringing again. He lets it lie where it is until Tamaki’s given up. _Sorry, I don’t think I’ll make it back till Christmas at the earliest_ , he forces himself to tap out. _And Tamaki, you know I’ll always support you where Haruhi’s concerned_ _– but I absolutely don’t want to be involved._ He hits send before he can regret his unaccustomed bluntness. And then he turns off his phone.


	7. A tale of two dinners – Part 2

To: Kyoya Ootori

From: Fuyumi Ootori-Shido

Subject: Your birthday!

If I buy you a cake will you come home for your birthday?

To: Fuyumi Ootori-Shido

From: Kyoya Ootori

Subject: Re: Your birthday!

No.

* * *

To: Kyoya Ootori

From: Fuyumi Ootori-Shido

Subject: Re: Your birthday!

If I _bake_ you a cake will you come home for your birthday?

To: Fuyumi Ootori-Shido

From: Kyoya Ootori

Subject: Re: Your birthday!

No.

* * *

To: Kyoya Ootori

From: Fuyumi Ootori-Shido

Subject: Re: Your birthday!

If Haruhi bakes you a cake will you come home for your birthday?

To: Fuyumi Ootori-Shido

From: Kyoya Ootori

Subject: Re: Your birthday!

Big sister, I love you dearly, but **_don’t you dare_**.

* * *

_Tokyo: Sunday, 22 November_

Kaoru, Hikaru and Mei argue so much about who gets to dress her for the birthday dinner that Haruhi feels forced to intervene before it turns into a genuine fistfight.

She thinks Mei would win, and if anyone found out, the twins would never live it down.

The compromise is a shopping trip, and although Kaoru and Hikaru turn their noses up at the stores she can afford, her three friends pounce on a rail of dresses that are exactly the kind of thing her father buys and leaves in her wardrobe for her to find. She leaves them to it, wandering off to find a suitable present for the occasion. Not for Kyoya – he won’t even be there – but for the hostess, Fuyumi.

Kaoru and Hikaru drag her back to their mansion to get ready, Mei talking loudly the whole way about how amazing Mrs Hitachiin is. By the time they’ve finished with her – and Mrs Hitachiin has given her seal of approval – she looks . . . nice enough, she supposes, as they push her in front of a full-length mirror, but not much like _her_. Too much lace and too many frills, like a doll gone wrong.

Still, she lets them take a photo, and forwards it on to her father. He’ll love it, and Fuyumi and Tamaki will probably also love it too. It’s not a hardship to dress up occasionally.

She’s still bemused as to why she and Tamaki have been invited to Kyoya’s family birthday dinner in the first place. Given that Kyoya is in America, the meal seems to be more of an excuse for the Suoh and Ootori patriarchs to get together than a celebration of the Ootori third son. She’s not even convinced _Kyoya_ knew she’d been invited – not before she’d accidentally told him yesterday, at any rate. She’d asked if he had plans for Sunday, and he’d told her about the lunch at the Tachibanas that he was looking forward to and the Spee club drinks party that he wasn’t. And then he’d asked if _she_ had any plans.

She’d reminded him that she was going to dinner with his family – Tamaki had told her it was Kyoya’s idea! – and his expression had flickered slightly, before he’d said, “Ah, yes, of course.”

_Of course_ , like hell. Haruhi senses a plot – one dreamed up with all the sophistication and brilliance that only someone as ridiculous as Tamaki can supply – and yet she can’t think what the plot is _for_. Tamaki’s mad at Kyoya for some reason. She knows because he told her so, about six weeks ago now, the day after she’d taught Kyoya how to cook curry. When she’d asked him _why_ , though, he’d gone red and said something ridiculous about it being a secret between blood brothers, before he’d started muttering something about blind, glasses-wearing idiots who didn’t understand what they could have even when it was staring them in the face. 

She’d thought it unwise to ask him what, exactly, he meant by that.

“Did you have a fight with Tamaki?” she’d asked Kyoya when they’d next spoken.

Kyoya had been irritable and nervy, his attention more on his iPad than on her, and his eyes ringed with dark circles that strongly suggested he hadn’t been to sleep, but his head had whipped up at that. “Not exactly,” he’d said cautiously. “Why?”

“Well, you should make up,” Haruhi had said firmly.

Kyoya’s stare had been unnerving. “Should we?”

“Yes!” she’d said.

“I suppose so,” Kyoya had said, without much conviction.

When she’d next seen Tamaki, she’d asked if they’d made up. “I know I’m right!” he said, clenching his fist and shaking it at a passing cloud. “Why won’t he notice my great and heroic sacrifice and do something about it, Haruhi?! Why?!”

She took that as a no. Now, as the Hitachiins’ chauffeur drops her outside the Ootori mansion – dear mother in heaven, her life is _ridiculous_ – she hopes Tamaki’s plot – whatever it might be – is a nice one, not some bone-headed, Shakespearean-inspired, black magic club revenge. Kyoya’s been tetchier than usual over the past six weeks or so. A lot of it she can put down to biology – the clocks went back in Boston on the first of November, and now Kyoya’s early morning calls are even earlier. He’s no better at mornings than he ever was, and six a.m. Kyoya is noticeably more evil than the seven a.m. version; she’s tried to persuade him to reschedule the calls to share the early-morning burden, with absolutely no success. But she can’t put _all_ of it down to his hatred of waking up. She thinks whatever fight he’s had with Tamaki’s been weighing on his mind. She’s looking forward to them making up so she can get back to worrying about her feelings for Kyoya, for a change.

Feeling the way she feels is starting to get tiring. It’s not in her nature to hide things, and the way Kyoya _looks_ at her sometimes . . . It makes her wonder if what Tamaki said might actually be true, even as she’s completely convinced it’s not. She thinks she’s better off confessing to him sooner rather than later, though, if only for the sake of her own sanity. She’ll need to start cramming for her college entrance exams in January, and she doesn’t want anything – or anyone – holding her back. If she’s going to be heartbroken, she’d like to get it over with before it can do her future any damage.

If Kyoya were here in front of her, she thinks as she rings the doorbell, she might even screw up the courage and confess now.

The door opens, and Haruhi smiles in surprise as Fuyumi dashes out – well, it’s more of a waddle, these days – and says, sounding out of breath, “Haruhi! I hoped I’d catch you first. Listen, I need to warn you that—”

“Warn her what, exactly, hm?” comes an irritable voice from just behind Fuyumi’s shoulder.

Haruhi feels herself grow hot – and then cold – and then hot all over again.

“Sorry,” Fuyumi mouths, her hands wrapping protectively around her bump as she steps away from the door. “Come in, let me take your coat.”

Kyoya – because of _course_ it’s Kyoya – shoos Fuyumi out of the way to attend to Haruhi’s coat himself, handing it to a uniformed member of staff who slides in out of nowhere and then vanishes again. He looks her up and down – just a flicker of his eyes, which don’t linger – and his lips twitch. “You look . . . Kaoru and Hikaru?”

“And Mei,” Haruhi says, not entirely sure what her face is doing. Is she happy? She supposes she must be, but she feels shaky and weird, and more self-conscious than she has in her entire life.

Confess _now_? The thought of opening her mouth and telling the man in front of her that she loves him is . . .

“It’s . . . it’s good to see you,” she says, to try to cover her confusion, and she finds she can manage a genuine, albeit wobbly, smile.

Kyoya looks at her for a moment, his expression unreadable behind the glint of his glasses, and jams his hands into his pockets. “It’s good to see you too,” he says quietly. “Come on, it’s been a long time since you’ve been here, hasn’t it? I’ll show you round.”

“She doesn’t need showing round!” Fuyumi says. “She’s been here loads recently.”

Kyoya seems unsettled by that, but he doesn’t say anything, and Haruhi isn’t sure it would be helpful to add that she hasn’t been here _loads_ , exactly. Just once or twice a week.

“Remember, Father will be here soon,” Fuyumi adds.

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” Kyoya says. “Fine, let’s . . . Follow me,” he says, uncharacteristically tongue-tied, and turns and strides off without waiting to see if she’s following.

Haruhi swallows hard, and Fuyumi gives her a little push. “He’s a bit grumpy because he’s jetlagged,” she whispers, in a carrying voice.

“I heard that,” Kyoya says without turning round.

Haruhi half-runs after him to catch up, and he leads her in silence to his personal suite. It’s the same as she remembers it, even though she hasn’t been there for a good year: an enormous space with floor to ceiling windows, chic white-leather sofas, and a modern staircase leading up to a mezzanine level. Tiny, brilliantly coloured fish swim in an enormous – _Titanic_ -recreation free – aquarium built into one wall. “Take a seat,” he says, waving vaguely at one of the sofas.

Haruhi sits, and Kyoya primly sits opposite her. She still feels kind of tingly and weird, her nerves on edge, her heart doing something uncomfortable and peculiar. Is this normal? She doesn’t like it. “Oh! Happy birthday,” she says, remembering why she’s actually here. “When did you arrive back in Tokyo?”

Kyoya seems to need to think harder than necessary about this. He looks exhausted. “A few hours ago?”

“And how long are you planning to stay?”

He glances at her, and she recognises something unusual in his expression: embarrassment. “I’m returning after dinner,” he says. “My private plane is very comfortable,” he adds. “It’s not a hardship.”

Boston to Tokyo is a minimum fourteen-hour flight. Fourteen hours there . . . fourteen hours back. For a three-hour dinner party. Her heart does something peculiar. “Senpai . . .” she starts. Her mind is screaming at her: _confess, confess, confess_.

Kyoya’s not looking at her. “What?”

She loses her nerve. “It really is good to see you.”

He tilts his head and smiles at her – warm and sweet, and he suddenly looks like the man with curry roux in his hair, rather than the evil six a.m. Kyoya of the past few weeks, who’s constantly busy and constantly irritable, and who’s angry at Tamaki but won’t tell her why. She feels the sudden urge to bash Kyoya and Tamaki’s heads together, only Tamaki’s head isn’t here yet to bash, so she impulsively gets up and goes to sit next to him instead. She’s still confused as to what exactly is happening right now – there’s clearly a reason he’s dashed across the world to be here, and she’s not convinced it’s her – but she doesn’t want to sit politely opposite him, as if they were strangers.

She doesn’t quite have the courage to give him a hug, but she leans closer to press her shoulder against his. He convulsively turns towards her, his expression startled but also _wanting_ in some important, as yet undefined way. He’s closer than is comfortable, and she can smell his cologne – fresh and clean, like cucumbers and rain.

“Senpai, I—” she starts, looking up at him. His eyes drop to her mouth, and—

Kyoya jumps as his phone ringtone penetrates the tense, expectant atmosphere, and he fumbles for it, trying to turn it off, and managing to drop it instead. The name on the screen flashes up: Fuyumi.

Haruhi feels a strong urge to push _Fuyumi_ into the dark circle of thirteen Belzeneffs. Surely no court would convict her?

Akito enters the room, just as Kyoya’s raised the phone to his ear. “Yes,” he says, with resigned amusement. “I can see that Akito’s home too.”

The dark circle widens a little, in Haruhi’s imagination, to let Fuyumi out and allow Akito in instead.

Akito, who’s dressed in a very sharp suit, gives a half bow in Haruhi’s direction, and then turns to frown at his brother. “Aren’t you dressing for dinner?” he asks with a sniff of disapproval. “Yuichi and his wife just arrived, and Mother and Father will be here soon too. We’ll go in to dinner when they’re ready.”

“What time will Tamaki and his father be here?” Haruhi asks, feeling a flicker of confusion. She can feel Kyoya turn to look at her.

Akito’s forehead puckers. “Chairman Suoh and his son aren’t invited tonight,” he says, sounding puzzled. “It’s just family. And you, of course,” he says, as if the reason for that is obvious.

Fuyumi rounds the corner, looking in a bit of a flap. “Tamaki’s sick!” she pants. “That’s why he’s not here!”

“No, he’s not,” Akito protests. “He keeps calling me for updates.”

“ _Akito_ ,” Fuyumi says in tones of despair. “Shut _up_.”

Kyoya clears his throat. Haruhi can’t bring herself to look at him, overwhelmed by the urge to call Tamaki _right this instant_ and verbally wring his neck. If she puts the pieces of the jigsaw puzzle together in her mind, it’s starting to look alarmingly like Tamaki has arranged for her and Kyoya to have their first in-person date. Without telling either of them. And _in front of Kyoya’s entire family._

“Come and meet my husband, Haruhi,” Fuyumi says firmly, taking Haruhi’s elbow. “You haven’t met Yuichi and his wife either yet, have you?”

“ _Fuyumi_ ,” Kyoya starts, sounding as if he’s at the end of his tether. Haruhi prays to the gods she doesn’t believe in that he never, ever works out what Tamaki – with, it seems, the full support of his sister – has done.

“Go and get dressed for dinner, little brother,” Fuyumi says, shooting him a warning look.

“All right,” Kyoya says with bad grace. “But . . . don’t.”

_Don’t what?_ Haruhi catches Kyoya’s eye by mistake, and he . . . _goes red_.

“I did promise,” Fuyumi says lightly. “Come on, Haruhi, let’s leave these idiots to it.”

* * *

“Don’t what?” Haruhi asks when they’re out of earshot.

Fuyumi looks thoughtful. “Don’t ask you the thing I promised not to ask you, I think he means.” And as Haruhi is digesting this, she adds, “Don’t be nervous about meeting Yuichi and my parents. They’re looking forward to getting to know you. If it helps,” she adds as they cross the main hallway once again, “I think Kyoya’s _much_ more nervous about it going well than you are. Why else would he spend fourteen hours on a plane just to eat dinner?”

It definitely helps, Haruhi thinks. It helps make things _so much worse_.

“I really hope that one day Kyoya will get his act together and make you my sister-in-law,” Fuyumi says brightly, and then half-pushes Haruhi – who seems to have suddenly lost the use of all her limbs – into a large, bright reception room full of terrifying people she doesn’t know.

* * *

They turn out not to be terrifying, of course. Haruhi’s always found it easy to get along with other people, and although the Ootoris and their in-laws are all high-accomplished, talented and sickeningly rich, they’re still just people.

Kyoya’s oldest brother, Yuichi, is a heart surgeon, she discovers. Haruhi wonders how he finds the time to combine this with being groomed to take over the Ootori empire. It explains his quiet – tired – demeanour. She likes him instantly. She likes his wife, Yua, too. Their marriage was an arranged one, Yua explains shyly, rubbing her pregnant belly – her third child – but she smiles at her husband as if she wouldn’t have chosen anyone different.

Kyoya dashes in just a few seconds before his mother and father arrive, out of breath and in a fresh suit, his hair freshly brushed to match. She recognises the suit, she thinks, trying not to laugh. She last saw it covered in yellow-brown curry sauce.

He bows to his mother and shakes hands with his father, before taking her arm and drawing her forward. “This is my – good friend Haruhi,” he says, and Haruhi’s not sure if she just imagined the infinitesimal pause.

It’s not as awkward as it could be, and while Haruhi’s still terrifyingly on edge, Kyoya’s parents are friendly . . . and extremely, extremely nosy, in a way that instantly relaxes her. She can cope with nosey. She’s had many years of practise.

Besides, it’s not like she’s embarrassed about either her own family background, or her future ambitions. She’s proud of her mum, who achieved so much in her horribly short life. Proud, too, of her dad, for keeping their little family together after the worst thing that could ever happen happened. She hopes she can be someone to be proud of, too.

Kyoya’s father takes up most of her attention during dinner, although she’s constantly aware of Kyoya’s tall, cool – and hideously jetlagged – presence in the chair beside her. She’s not sure why Mr Ootori is asking _her_ about Kyoya’s recent studies and achievements, but she figures Kyoya’s not the boasting sort, so she cheerfully obliges on his behalf.

“Haruhi’s planning on reading law,” Kyoya interrupts when he’s clearly had as much as he can take, and then the conversation turns back to her again, and she doesn’t much mind that either.

The only real awkward spot comes after dinner, when – to Kyoya’s obvious alarm – Mr Ootori draws her aside for a private chat. “So, which of my sons do you think I should make my heir?” he asks.

There’s a lightness to his voice, but Haruhi doesn’t think he’s joking. Does he want her to answer diplomatically – or honestly? “Haven’t you already made a decision?” she asks instead.

He smiles. “Perhaps. Would you like it to be Kyoya?”

Would _she_ like it to be? It’s not a fair question. If Kyoya himself doesn’t know whether he wants it or not, why should she? “I would . . . like Kyoya-senpai to be happy,” she says carefully. She can see him in the distance. Fuyumi has her hand on his left arm, and his mother holds his right, as if he’d shoot across the room like a cork from a champagne bottle if they’d only let go. He’s looking at her, but she can’t read his expression.

“And do you think becoming my heir would make him happy?” Mr Ootori prods. “You can be honest. This isn’t a test,” he adds, which makes her think, even more strongly, that it somehow is.

She looks at him. “I think you should offer it to him, so that he can say no,” she says eventually. Is that fair? she wonders when she’s said it. She’s reasonably sure it’s _true_. Kyoya seems torn apart by his internal battle sometimes: wanting to be recognised as worthy of the Ootori Group, without any real desire to run it. She has yet to see any evidence that he’s the slightest bit interested in healthcare and medical equipment.

But the whole thing is slightly stupid, anyway, isn’t it? she thinks. And not just stupid – unkind, as well. If she had three sons, she wouldn’t set them up for a lifetime of unhealthy competition and resentment, in a contest where there can only be one winner. Where her daughter doesn’t even get to _take part_.

“You asked me which of your sons I think you should make your heir,” Haruhi says, before she can lose her nerve. “I think . . . if I had four children, I’d treat them all equally.”

“A company benefits from a strong leader,” Mr Ootori says calmly. “Don’t you agree?”

Haruhi thinks of the host club. Of Tamaki, shining brightly, exploding with a thousand sparkling ideas . . . and of Kyoya, the cool and competent genius sitting behind him, turning inspiration into concrete plans. Keeping to budget. Making a profit. With Tamaki, the host club would never have happened; but without Kyoya it would never have succeeded.

She thinks of Hani and Mori, studying different college degrees to make extra certain their futures will lock together even more tightly.

Maybe it’s idealistic, but she’d rather be part of a team – all supporting each other to do better – than a lonely winner, no matter how successful.

Mr Ootori is looking at her expectantly. And although she feels like he can see right into her brain and read her thoughts, she thinks that’s probably beyond even as someone as reputedly clever as him. So she expresses some of what she’s been thinking, as politely as she knows how, torn between her desire to be straightforward and her unease at the possibility he might somehow blame Kyoya if she tells him something he doesn’t want to hear. She thinks Mr Ootori is fair, but she doesn’t know that for sure.

When she’s finished, Mr Ootori regards her for a long moment, and then nods, as if he’s satisfied. “I’m monopolising you,” he says politely, and to Kyoya’s evident relief, he then lets her go.

She can tell Kyoya wants to know what they were talking about, but at the same time he doesn’t. In the end, she puts him out of his misery. “He wanted to know if I thought you’d make a good heir to his company,” she says.

Kyoya looks at her, his expression unusually vulnerable. “And do you?”

Haruhi reaches out to squeeze his arm, feeling something squeeze at her heart at the same time. “What do _you_ think?”

* * *

One of Kyoya’s presents is a car. The ideal gift, Haruhi thinks but doesn’t say, trying not to roll her eyes, for someone who’s currently studying for a four-year undergraduate degree in another country. The Ootoris might be one of Japan’s most elite families, but it’s strangely heartening to see them be just as terrible at picking presents as basically everybody else.

“Take it for a test drive,” Fuyumi says, tossing him the keys, and shooing him and Haruhi towards the door.

Kyoya glances at her. “Do you want to?”

“Sure,” Haruhi says.

She bids a polite goodnight to the other guests, before offering her hostess present to Fuyumi – who isn’t the hostess, she realises, even as she does it. Akito watches and scores her gift selection and etiquette a reasonable 7/10 for effort, before glaring at Kyoya. Haruhi tries not to laugh; Akito clearly still bears a grudge.

“Sorry, Akito,” Kyoya says, with the expression of someone who isn’t sorry in the slightest. “All right, come on then,” he says, and takes her hand as he leads her to the door. His fingers are very warm, and she can feel the tips of her ears heat up in sympathy.

“Where shall we go, then?” he asks when he’s helped her into the car, and his fingers drum against the steering wheel. She’s not sure he knows he’s doing it.

“You haven’t met my weed in person,” she says, and he turns to raise his eyebrows at her. “Would you like to come to mine and have a cup of coffee?”

His eyes are very dark. “Yes, OK,” he says, and starts the car. Silence falls between them as he drives, and Haruhi desperately tries to think of something to say. It seems very difficult, all of a sudden. “Are you disappointed that Tamaki wasn’t there tonight?” Kyoya asks abruptly.

It’s not a question she was expecting. “No, just surprised,” she says honestly. His fingers are tight around the steering wheel, his neck a tense, sharp line. “Tamaki said you’d invited him – he said it was your idea to invite _me_.”

He says nothing, but the tension falls out of him, as if a key’s been turned.

“I really wish you’d make up with Tamaki,” Haruhi says firmly. “I don’t know what you fell out over – Tamaki won’t tell me either – but I think you’d both feel a lot better if you just . . . made up.”

He finally looks at her, before turning back to the road. He seems to want to ask her something, but he doesn’t, and soon enough they’re outside her apartment, anyway.

“I’m home!” Haruhi calls, and her father responds, before shooting out and enveloping Kyoya in a warm, enthusiastic hug.

“I didn’t know you were visiting! Are you staying long?”

“I’m returning tonight,” Kyoya says politely.

“Oh?” Ranka says, and to Haruhi’s discomfort, he winks at her. “Well, I have a shift at the bar, so I’ll get going.”

He doesn’t, but before Haruhi can protest, he’s already out the door.

The apartment feels very small with just the two of them in it. Haruhi pulls on her slippers and hurries to fetch her Bonsai. It’s looking . . . very slightly bigger than when she first got it, and if anything, slightly wilder. She’s wired some branches as instructed, but that only seems to have encouraged it to do worse.

“Magnificent,” Kyoya says drily.

She hits him lightly, and goes to make some coffee. “Sorry I didn’t manage to get your present to you in time,” she calls from the kitchen. “Hopefully it’ll be waiting for you when you get back.”

“What is it?” he asks when she brings the coffee through.

“It’s instant, don’t complain,” she says, and then grins. “Oh, you mean the present? It’s a cookbook – or, well, it’s a copy of a cookbook. You’ll see when you open it. I don’t mind if you don’t like it.”

He blows on the surface of the coffee and takes a sip, pulling a face. “Hideous,” he says, and drinks again. “A copy?”

It seems easier to show him the original. She gets up and fetches her mother’s old cookbook. It’s a family heirloom of sorts, although not one with any monetary value. It’s just a collection of recipes, some from her grandmother, but most from her mother – some handwritten, and some stuck in from cut-up magazines. Haruhi’s added a few of her own at the end, too.

He leafs throughout without comment.

“I photocopied some, and copied out others,” she says, feeling a bit uncertain. “I thought it would be useful for your sophomore year, when you finally get a kitchen, and Mrs Tachibana said you were helping her cook each week, but as I said, if you don’t like it, I won’t be offended.”

“I’ll like it,” he says, still flicking through. His face is expressionless – and she thinks he’s doing that on purpose, so his real feelings don’t show. “Thank you.”

She’s going to say, “It’s nothing much,” but she doesn’t, because that isn’t true. She doesn’t have much left of her mother – even her memories are hazy, bleached out by the inexorable passage of time – but one thing she does have is this. When she cooks her mother’s food, she feels her love, even now.

She hopes Kyoya will feel it too.

“I have to go,” he says, with a reluctant look at his watch.

He doesn’t, but she doesn’t point that out. “Let me know when you’re back safely,” she says instead.

“Of course,” he says. “I’ll call you—” He frowns, and his eyes flicker up. “I’m too tired to work it out,” he says, with a small smile. “I’ll call you when I’m awake again.”

She walks him to the door, and he lingers, and it’s not as if she _wants_ to close the door on him, so she doesn’t. She slips on her outdoor shoes and joins him on the balcony. She remembers, with a little shiver that’s only partly the cold night air, how she’d stood on the balcony before, a few months ago now, and tried to imagine if she’d like Kyoya to kiss her.

She’s certain of the answer now.

“When will you next come back home?” she asks, rubbing her arms.

“Christmas, I think,” he says, his eyes fastening on her hands. “You’re cold. I should say goodnight.”

“Yes,” she agrees, willing herself to step forward with every muscle in her body, and finding it impossible to move.

Kyoya swallows hard – she can see his Adam’s apple bob – and doesn’t move either. “Well, goodnight, then,” he says, and his voice sounds thicker than usual.

“Yes,” she says, because she’s turned into a stuck record. She’s run out of time for the confession, and yet everything in her wants to do it – can feel the stress of it thrumming through her, her heart pounding with anxiety. She’ll regret it, if she doesn’t do _something_. “Senpai?” she says, and it hurts to breathe.

“Yes?” he says.

She gathers all her courage and stands on tiptoe, leaning forward to give him a hug. “I’ll miss you,” she says, meaning _I love you_ , but she’s already used all her courage up.

He’s stiff in her arms for a moment, but just as she’s about to pull away in embarrassment, he folds her in tight. He’s warm, and solid, and she’s _never_ been hugged like this before – like if he lets go, it will kill him.

But he lets go anyway, his face red. She can see his hands are trembling, before he tucks them into the pockets of his expensive-looking coat. “I’ll – I’ll call you soon,” he says, and before she can say anything in reply, he’s already gone.


	8. Kotatsu daydreams

_Cambridge: Thursday, 26 November_

Kyoya is invited to dozens of Thanksgiving lunches.

He arrives at the Tachibanas’ a few minutes early, with Haruhi’s cookbook under one arm, a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a pumpkin pie precariously balanced in the other. “Don’t worry, I didn’t bake it myself,” he greets Mrs Tachibana, who smiles warmly as she relieves him of his burdens.

“I thought . . . Perhaps you would be kind enough to help me cook a few of these,” he says as she leafs through the book with interest.

Her smile grows fonder. “Of course, dear. There’s some blank pages at the end. Shall I copy in a few of my own recipes for you?” she asks, and he nods as the children run circles round them both, shouting out their favourite meals.

The rest of his security team arrive for lunch too, as do a number of the Tachibanas’ new friends. He expects to feel awkward, but he doesn’t. He feels like family.

He already has one, of course – one he dearly loves. But it’s still a gift he never expected, to have this one too.

“How is Haruhi?” Mrs Tachibana asks over the crowded table, as he eyes his plate – still piled high with turkey; mashed potatoes and gravy; sweet potatoes topped, revoltingly, with marshmallows; sprouts glistening with butter; squash; green bean casserole . . . He’s already eaten so much he thinks he might die.

“She sends her love,” he says.

“Well, please send her mine too,” Mrs Tachibana replies.

“Of course,” he says, and thinks how pathetic it is that he’ll have to text it to her, because if he tries to say the word ‘love’ out loud in front of her, it’s possible he might die. When it comes to Haruhi, all his poise and dignity seems to have deserted him, reducing him to a pitiable wreck of a human being.

He helps Mrs Tachibana and the children clear up after – the mysteries of the dishwasher have, alas, been tragically revealed – and gives his apologies for leaving so early. He shoots a glance at Haruhi’s cookbook, before he goes, suddenly unwilling to be parted from it.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of it,” Mrs Tachibana says with a warm and friendly smile. He’s embarrassed to be so transparent.

He dips in and out of different parties and dinners for the rest of the day. Many of the students have gone home for Thanksgiving, but the campus is still bustling with activity, and his father has secured a number of invites for him amongst the expat business community that he can’t – and doesn’t want to – ignore.

It’s gone three a.m. by the time he stumbles back into his cell-like dorm room, though it’s exhaustion rather than alcohol that makes him feel like he’s been hit by a truck. He kicks off his shoes and sits on his bed, back up against the wall. On his left, the ridiculous photo canvas of himself and Tamaki, arms around each other, beams down at him.

He misses Tamaki so much at that moment that he can feel it in his stomach, as strong as a physical blow.

“Did you like my birthday present?” Tamaki whispers in a low, excited voice, answering almost as soon as Kyoya’s made the decision to call.

“Shouldn’t you be in class right now?” Kyoya asks, unsure if what he feels right now is pleasure or regret.

“I am,” Tamaki whispers. “I’m under the desk. Hang on.” Kyoya can hear Tamaki feigning a stomach ache to his professor, very loudly, and then the sound quality shifts, the quiet background sliding into the hum of traffic. “I escaped,” Tamaki says cheerfully. “Did you like my present?”

They haven’t spoken for six or seven weeks now, and Kyoya’s still not certain why, only that he didn't want to. They didn’t even have a proper argument, really. He knows why _he_ got angry at Tamaki – a jealousy that even now makes him feel both nauseous and ridiculous. There are many reasons why he shouldn’t even think about acting on his feelings for Haruhi, but his best friend’s feelings still loom painfully large at the top of the list. He’s still half-convinced that if he leaves Tamaki to it, he’ll win Haruhi round in the end. He should leave Tamaki to it, he thinks. But he just _can’t_.

He thinks Tamaki can see right through him, and that’s why they’re fighting – or rather, _not_ fighting. The silence is worse than fighting, really. He’s tearing himself inside out trying not to be in love with Haruhi, and all Tamaki can see is that his best friend is trying to steal her.

Not that Haruhi _can_ be stolen, he thinks wearily, feeling a bit like he’s lost the plot. As far as he’s knows, so far she’s coolly rejected the confessions of basically every man she’s ever met. Why does he think she wouldn’t do the same to him too?

“What present?” he asks.

He can hear Tamaki roll his eyes, almost. “Akito told me it went well,” he says cheerfully. “He’s a bit stuffy, your brother, and Hikaru still tries to hide when I mention his name, but I’m doing my best to liven him up a bit,” he adds.

Kyoya tries to make his brain work. It’s like doing a jigsaw puzzle with his eyes shut, and without ever having seen the picture on the box. He can feel the shape of the pieces, but he can’t quite manage to fit them together into coherence. Tamaki somehow manipulated Haruhi into agreeing to a meal with his – Kyoya’s – parents, by telling her he – Tamaki – would be there. His sister went along with it. What was this dubious ‘present’ meant to achieve, exactly, other than forcing Kyoya into an unplanned, and emotionally unwise, visit home?

He can’t regret going, even though he feels like his body clock’s been overwound so tight it’s broken. Seeing Haruhi was so wonderful, and leaving her so painful, that he feels like _he_ is broken. But . . .

“Are we OK?” Tamaki asks suddenly, and he sounds awkward and puppyish, like he’s expecting a kick.

“I don’t know,” Kyoya says, and adds, with late-night, friendship-ruining honesty, “I don’t want you to have her.”

All he can hear is traffic for a while, punctuated by occasional bursts of bird-song. “What if she wants me, though?” Tamaki asks, very quiet.

Kyoya can’t breathe. “I’ll be your best man,” he says. Ludicrous. Over-emotional. “I’ll get over it.” He won’t. He—

“You are SUCH an IDIOT,” Tamaki says.

Kyoya chokes, which turns into a cough that tries to bring his lungs up with it. “Sorry, what?” he says when he’s more confident he’s not going to die.

“Did you forget,” Tamaki says, surprisingly acid, “that I spent WEEKS and WEEKS over summer weeping tragic, poetic tears on your shoulder, set against the backdrop of some of the most beautiful and cultural monuments across the world, because she turned me down? It was a masterclass in wounded passion!” he adds with solemnity. “I swore to protect her and her happiness forever after, no matter what!”

“Well, no,” Kyoya says.

“Kyoya, you’re my best friend! I really want you to be happy too,” Tamaki says with uncomfortable insistence, “I mean it! If she likes you . . . I’ll be _your_ best man.”

Kyoya feels dizzy. Closes his eyes. “I might want Akito,” he says eventually.

Tamaki laughs, and it only sounds a little strained. “I’ve already written most of my speech,” he says alarmingly. “It will be the most glorious thing in the history of weddings. Bards will set it to music, and it will live on forever in the hearts and minds of—”

“Thank you,” Kyoya says, cutting him off. “I expect to have an arranged marriage at some point, but I appreciate the thought.”

“I’ll buy you a kotatsu as a wedding present,” Tamaki says dreamily. “Big enough for you and Haruhi and your four beautiful children, and – _what_ did you say?”

Kyoya finds that the lump in his throat is too big to allow him to repeat it.

* * *

_Tokyo_

“You hugged him?” Mei asks.

Haruhi nods.

“And he hugged you back? Like, properly?”

Haruhi nods.

“And you didn’t kiss him?” Mei demands, folding her arms and sitting back to raise her over-painted eyebrows at her.

Haruhi feels this is all a bit unfair. “No,” she says, keeping her voice low, because this is a café, after all, and she doesn’t want the whole world to know her private business, “but he didn’t kiss _me_ either.”

“Yes, because he’s an idiot,” Mei says patiently. “What’s _your_ excuse?”

“I don’t know if he likes me!” Haruhi protests. In her head, Fuyumi rolls her eyes at her and mouths _sister-in-law_. Haruhi shuts her down mercilessly; the pregnancy hormones have clearly sent her loopy.

“Tamaki said—”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean it’s _true_ ,” Haruhi says, and to her alarm Mei picks up her phone. “What are you doing?”

“Tamaki, babe, quick question,” Mei says into her phone, and bats Haruhi away as she desperately tries to grab it from her. “Is Kyoya _really_ in love with Haruhi?” Haruhi tries harder, but Mei is relentless. “Mm,” she says. “Noooooo? Mmm, well yeah. Yeah, I thought so.” She hangs up and gives Haruhi a look of great triumph. “He says yes, but I’m not allowed to tell you how he knows.”

Haruhi wishes she knew how to do meditation, or some kind of calming breathing exercise, because right now she has an overpowering urge to punch her best friend in the jaw. “MEI!” she says.

“Sorry,” Mei says, not looking sorry, and pushes her glass of parfait towards her, brandishing the spoon. “Have some,” she demands.

Haruhi does, because otherwise she thinks she’ll say something she’ll regret. “That was unkind to Tamaki-senpai,” she says when she’s got a better grip on her temper.

“Oh yeah, shit,” Mei says, looking stricken. “I forgot he’s in love with you too.”

Heads turn to look at them, and Haruhi resists the urge to hide under the table. “Kyoya is _not_ in—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mei interrupts. “He totally is, though. And from what you’ve told me, his whole family are batty about you too. What are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Haruhi says.

Mei picks up the parfait spoon and taps it against her lips. “Not like you,” she says, and eats a spoonful. “You should tell him how you feel. You talk to him enough, don’t you?”

“I – want to tell him in person,” she says weakly. Mei shoots her a meaningful glance. “He was barely home for five minutes!” she protests. “If we’d had more time together, I . . . I _might_ have,” she adds, under Mei’s penetrating stare.

Mei eats another spoonful. “When’s he next back?” she says, through her mouthful.

“Christmas,” Haruhi says despondently.

“And until then, he’s a single man in a foreign country, surrounded by hot American women, partying every night, and—” Mei breaks off and has the grace to look embarrassed. “I mean, I’m sure he only has eyes for his textbooks, though,” she hastily amends.

Unfortunately for Haruhi, she knows enough about Kyoya’s busy social life that she’s not certain she can agree.

* * *

_Cambridge: Saturday, 30 November_

Harvard narrowly beat Yale 52–49, in the 137th rendition of The Game.

Kyoya attends, because he can hardly avoid it. He’s never been particularly enthusiastic about sport; he does the minimum daily exercise that his team of personal doctors have prescribed for reasons of health rather than enjoyment. Standing in the cold watching over-muscled students try to crush each other is not his idea of a good time, but he does his best to participate in the traditional cheers, and by the time Harvard win he almost feels enthusiastic.

He feels much more enthusiastic, though, about the fact that the annual American football match marks the end of the final clubs’ punch process.

It’s not that he hasn’t found it occasionally useful, even enjoyable. In the past couple of weeks, the clubs vying for his membership have upped the ante, in their attempt to demonstrate the very real advantages of becoming one of them. The Porcellian flew him out to New York to meet the Winklevoss twins – the first Bitcoin billionaires. The Spee introduced him to businessman and investor Joshua Kushner, whose connections go right up to the White House. The Fox arranged a conference call with the legendary Bill Gates.

But while he wouldn’t admit it out loud, Kyoya’s bored of wasting his time with so many alcohol-fuelled social events. He appreciates good conversation, and culture, and fine food. He does _not_ appreciate coach trips, and warm beer, and off-colour jokes, and – he shudders at the memory – outdoor pissing. He appreciates strippers even less, although at least that particular evening made it easy to strike one potential club off his list.

It’s all part of the college experience, he supposes. He’s not naïve; he’s nineteen, not a child. He can appreciate the urge to let loose. To cast off his responsibilities, even for an hour or two. But he has his reputation to think of. Whatever he does reflects on his family, and on the Ootori Group. He has no desire to appear on an influential friend’s Instagram in a state of drunkenness, his stupidity there for all the world to see. For _Haruhi_ to see, he thinks uncomfortably. He’s aware he’s heavily edited what he’s told her about some aspects of college life, and he feels unimpressed with himself. The one time he accepted an invitation to a club date-event – a perfectly respectable black-tie formal at a castle, which grew increasingly _un_ respectable as the night wore on – he found it extremely difficult not to be rude to his companion. It wasn’t _her_ fault she wasn’t Haruhi. He hasn’t done that again.

“Which club should I join?” he asks Haruhi the next morning, taking off his glasses to scrub at his eyes. He was punched for five clubs in October; last night, five separate congratulatory messages were slid under his door. He thinks he should feel pleased; he just feels torn.

“Which do you like the best?” she asks, matter of fact.

The honest answer – “None of them” – is out of his mouth before he can stop it. He slides his glasses back on, to see she’s looking at him with concern.

“Are you all right, senpai?” she asks.

He hasn’t been all right since he left her. He can still feel her in his arms, warm and oh so very welcome. “Fine,” he says, and clears his throat. “I’m just having trouble making a decision.”

“Well,” she says, her eyes looking off in thought. “You said that some of the clubs provide lunch for their members. Which one has the best food?”

It’s so Haruhi that he laughs. “The Porcellian,” he says.

“There you go, then,” she says with a grin.

He smiles back . . . and suddenly he feels awkward again. Since he left, after his birthday meal, they’ve spoken every day – and every day, he’s felt so awkward it’s appalling. It’s strange, he thinks, that he spends all his waking hours – and some of his sleeping hours too – wanting to talk to her. But when they _are_ talking, he feels nervous and self-conscious, in a way that’s utterly alien to him. _She_ seems unaffected. But for him . . .

Whenever she looks at him, all he can think about is the balcony outside her apartment. The way his heart had raced so fast that his vision had blurred. How she’d looked at him. How fucking _much_ he’d wanted to kiss her.

And how convinced he’d been, in that moment, that she’d wanted to kiss him too.

He feels like the biggest coward on the planet.

Still, dwelling on it isn’t going to change anything, and a tiny, awful part of him feels glad he didn’t do something he couldn’t take back. He hadn’t realised how much he’d been relying on Tamaki’s feelings as an excuse to suppress his own, until Tamaki knocked a hole in that wall. Now, when he peers out beyond the rubble, he sees a thousand pathetic excuses, all of his own making. He loves her, but he doesn’t love her poky apartment, her humble background. He loves Ranka, but he doesn’t love the idea of a father-in-law who works in a bar.

Fuyumi and Yuichi both married someone their father chose for them, bringing connections, wealth, influence to the family. Akito will undoubtedly do the same. Kyoya himself will . . . What _will_ he do?

Kyoya’s always prided himself on his cool head, his rational decisions. Turning Haruhi’s family background over in his mind, judging the merit she can bring to his family and finding it wanting, he’s finding it increasingly hard to like himself.

If he was truly sensible, and rational, he thinks as she cheerfully waves a knobbly carrot at him – the gardening club’s first vegetable crop has come through – he’d stop calling her. Let their friendship, or whatever this is right now, cool. Be distant, until he can be around her without feeling like every moment he’s not talking to her is a moment wasted.

Turns out, he thinks, he’s not very sensible and rational at all.

* * *

_Tokyo: Early December_

“Kyoya told me he joined some . . . pig club,” Fuyumi says, wrinkling her nose. She’s going through Haruhi’s clothes as she speaks, tossing some things aside – all of Haruhi’s comfortable, androgynous outfits – and hanging up all the frilly dresses that lie crumpled at the foot of the wardrobe.

Haruhi knows. He sent her a selfie of him and some of his new friends, dressed in black tie and raising glasses of champagne. He followed it up with a photo of his dinner. _Thank you for your wise advice x_ , the caption read. It’s the first kiss he’s ever sent her. She puts it down to the champagne.

“It’s called the Porcellian club,” Akito calls with a judgemental sniff. “I looked it up on the internet. _I_ am far too busy at medical school to join any social clubs,” he adds. “I thought that being away from the Suoh heir might finally encourage our little brother to knuckle down and concentrate on his studies, but it seems I was wrong.”

The ‘Suoh heir’ slumps into a corner with his head in his hands.

“The food is apparently very good,” Haruhi protests on Kyoya’s behalf, drawing forth a judgmental snort this time from Akito, and a giggle from Fuyumi. She doesn’t know why she’s tolerating these people invading her home, except for the fact that she kind of likes them. Akito is worse than the host club in many ways – more judgemental, more snobbish, and miles less fun – but she senses he’s caught more firmly in the ‘not the first son’ trap than even Kyoya ever was. She feels sorry for him. He’s not _that_ bad.

“Don’t call me ‘the Suoh heir’!” Tamaki complains from his corner, before turning wide, guileless eyes on Haruhi. “I’m hungry,” he says, with a hopeful air.

Haruhi’s father – dressed for work – passes through and swats him on the head with a rolled-up newspaper. “Ridiculous child,” he says, and wafts past again, showering Tamaki with biscuits.

“Are you going to pick those clothes up again?” Haruhi asks Fuyumi, raising her eyebrows at the pile on the floor.

Fuyumi looks down at her bump; she’s six months gone, and she looks like someone’s stuck a large watermelon up her jumper. There’s no way she can see her feet. “Yes,” she says optimistically, and reaches down precariously, before realising her error. “No,” she says apologetically. “Tamaki! Come here.”

Haruhi does _not_ want Tamaki rooting through her closet. “It’s fine! Just leave it,” she says, coaxing Fuyumi out of her bedroom and closing the door behind her.

“Tell me what Kyoya has been up to lately!” Akito demands when she’s helped Fuyumi to sit down. “Is he actually doing any work?”

“You could ask him yourself,” Fuyumi says unhelpfully, helping herself to a biscuit. “He usually Skypes Haruhi around this time, doesn’t he?”

If Kyoya is put out to be greeted by Akito, Fuyumi and Tamaki, all leaning in so close to Haruhi that they’re practically squashing her, he hides it well. Still. “Sorry, senpai,” she says.

“Kyoya is never sorry to see me!” Tamaki says with bright inaccuracy, and Kyoya politely inclines his head.

“Fuyumi, Akito,” Kyoya says calmly. “What a surprise.”

Akito leads the conversation, and Kyoya launches into a detailed, incomprehensible explanation of his latest statistics project that Haruhi thinks Akito is only pretending to understand. He’s a medic, not a mathematician, for all his MBA plans.

“How tedious,” Fuyumi says lightly, and both Akito and Kyoya turn to glare at her.

Perhaps Akito _does_ understand.

After some scintillating stocks and shares talk, which to Haruhi’s surprise both Fuyumi and Tamaki join in with some alacrity, Kyoya glances off to the side. “I have to go,” he says. “Take care, Haruhi,” he adds, and then he cuts the call.

“That boy could stand to learn some manners,” Akito says, and then snaffles the biscuit that Tamaki was reaching for.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Fuyumi says. “Akito and I only dropped by briefly to ask if you and Ranka would like to join us for our usual family dinner on Friday night.”

Haruhi knows her dad has a shift then. “Sorry, but—”

“We’d be delighted!” her dad calls from his room. “We accept!”

* * *

_Cambridge_

“Fuyumi . . .” Kyoya says, with what he thinks is considerable restraint.

“It’s just dinner!” Fuyumi says breezily.

“Haruhi doesn’t want to be forced to spend time with Mother and Father every five minutes,” Kyoya grinds out. “What are you playing at?”

“It’s not _just_ Haruhi,” Fuyumi says. “Her father’s coming too.”

Kyoya hangs up.

* * *

When he calls back, he wishes he hadn’t. “Haruhi’s my friend,” Fuyumi says inexorably. “I love her, and I want to know her better.” She pauses and adds thoughtfully, “You know, Akito likes her very much too.”

* * *

Kyoya’s not stupid enough to fall for the same trick twice, however much he wants to. But on the morning he knows Haruhi is, once again, having dinner at his house, he wakes up sweating from a nightmare he tries desperately not to remember.

In it, Akito was kissing Haruhi. As he watched, Tamaki’s disembodied voice said, very sadly, _Kyoya, my friend, you had your chance_.

He feels better after he’s showered and gone out to buy the largest, strongest coffee he can find, but not by much. It doesn’t require the assistance of Freud to interpret his dream. He knows, objectively, that Fuyumi is only trying to wind him up. Akito is not the type of man to deviate even slightly from the path that was laid out for him from the moment of his birth. The idea that his older brother might even consider Haruhi as an option is laughable.

Logic, however, fails to take away the sting of his jealousy, bright and green and sharp. Akito is there right now with Haruhi, while he is not.

He can’t concentrate during class, distracted by unpleasant thoughts. When he feels his phone buzz before the seminar is finished, he doesn’t even look to see who’s calling, just excuses himself politely. There’s not much point in his body being present, if his mind is not.

When he gets outside, he looks at his phone. He’s missed a call from Ranka.

“I was just calling to say hello,” Haruhi’s father says cheerfully when Kyoya calls back.

He always speaks to Ranka on Mondays. Today is Friday. “No you weren’t,” Kyoya says calmly. “How was dinner?”

Ranka laughs, as if he’s been caught out, and gives a long and enthusiastic account. It’s only when Kyoya’s persistent headache eases a fraction, that he realises he’s had a headache at all. “Your father is very handsome,” Ranka adds confidingly.

Kyoya snorts. “Yes, I suppose so.”

“And your mother is so very proud of you!” Ranka says with a happy sigh. “She and I had a lovely talk. It’s a blessing to have such a long and happy marriage,” he adds, a little sadly. “Would you like to know how I met Haruhi’s mother?” he asks, perking up.

Kyoya listens, and it’s as ridiculous and charming a story as could be expected. He wonders how Mrs Fujioka’s family had reacted to her marrying a bisexual liquor-store employee six years younger than her. He wonders how much further Mrs Fujioka could have risen in her career if she’d made a different choice.

He wonders what’s wrong with him for thinking such a thing. “Did Mrs Fujioka’s parents approve?” he asks, with uncharacteristic bluntness.

Ranka laughs. “Hell, no. But we shouldn’t live our lives solely to please our parents, should we? Sometimes doing the right thing isn’t easy. Kotoko could have been a big-shot lawyer if she’d wanted,” he says, pride filling his voice. “Haruhi definitely gets her brains from my wife. But she didn’t care about financial success. She just wanted to help regular people, and then of course Haruhi came along. I give thanks every day to the gods for giving me Kotoko, even though it was for far too short a time,” he adds wistfully. “I just wish Haruhi had had the chance to know her better. My wonderful daughter is just like her. Cool and composed on the outside, but with a beautiful, passionate heart.”

Is Ranka giving him a lecture on purpose, or is it just Kyoya’s guilty conscience making it feel that way? It’s _different_ for him. He’s an Ootori. Still, Ranka’s words are sincere, and his great love for Haruhi’s mother is . . . Well. Kyoya feels melancholy wrap around him. He knows that Haruhi misses her mother. It makes him think of his own mother too.

“I wish I knew my mother better,” he says, to his own surprise. Does he mean it? Yes, he realises. His father has always loomed large on his horizon, despite his frequent absences, while his hard-working mother has made very little impression on his life at all. He loves her, but he doesn’t know her. She’s impressive, as all Ootori women are, but self-effacing, sliding into the background as if she was never there at all.

He suspects his father would fall apart without her.

“Well, it’s too late for Haruhi to know her mother better,” Ranka says with soft nostalgia, “but I hope you’ll remember that it’s not too late for you.”


	9. Tamaki takes control

_Tokyo_

Tamaki bangs his fist on the kotatsu. Hard. “Right, team! Report!” he says, trying to suppress the tears of pain that spring to his eyes.

Kaoru is leaning against Hikaru as if he’s the wall. They both look bored. “He doesn’t usually reply to anyone but Haruhi,” Kaoru says with a half shrug.

“We already _know_ that,” Hikaru says.

They turn to look at him with twin expressions of disdain. “Why don’t you?” they both chime.

Tamaki feels briefly wounded. Don’t they _care_ about Kyoya’s feelings? Why aren’t they on-board as enthusiastically as he is? If they don’t watch out, Haruhi and Kyoya will never get together! And . . . and . . .

Tamaki feels a flash of intense kinship with Hikaru and Kaoru – maybe they should form a Rejected by Haruhi club? – but sets the idea aside for later. He doesn’t have _time_ to dwell on his own pain. He has Kyoya’s to think of.

It’s not that Tamaki wants to see Haruhi with someone else, especially. But he’s always known on some level that Kyoya liked her that way – and once he’d used his subtle detective methods to probe her feelings, he’d known exactly what he’d have to do.

If he leaves Kyoya to his own devices, Tamaki thinks with determination, he’ll just go and marry someone for stupid business reasons, and then regret it for the rest of his life.

“Why are we in Kyoya-senpai’s house again?” Kaoru asks pointedly.

“Yes, and why is _she_ here?” Hikaru says, pointing.

Mei sits up very straight. “Hey!” she complains. “Fuyumi invited me, jerkwad.”

“My sister doesn’t even _live_ here any more,” Akito says tetchily from the doorway.

Kaoru tries to bury himself under the kotatsu at the sight of Akito, as Fuyumi gives a little wave. “Hello, brother, I love you too.”

“Is he gone yet?” Kaoru hisses.

“No,” says Akito.

“We are _here_ ,” Tamaki says loudly, “because Kyoya is the only one of you terrible people with a large enough kotatsu!” Isn’t it obvious? He bangs his fist on the table again, but this time with less force. “Hani! Mori! Report!”

Hani sits to attention and bangs his hand to the side of his head in a mock salute. “I sent him a photo of Usa-chan wrapped in tinsel!” he says.

“Great work!” Tamaki says.

“But he didn’t reply.”

A wave of disappointment crashes over Tamaki. He reaches one hand out to Mori, the only one who can save him now.

“I asked him if he was well,” Mori says.

Tamaki waits with bated breath.

“He said, ‘Fine, thank you, how are you?’”

It takes Tamaki a good ten minutes to recover from this crushing blow. “He never asks _me_ how I am! Why does Kyoya love Mori more than me?” he wails, as Fuyumi pats his hair and Mori looks a little awkward.

“Well _obviously_ because—” Hikaru starts enthusiastically, until Kaoru reaches over to pinch him. “Ow!” he says, turning away briefly; when he swivels back, his eyes are full of unshed tears. “That hurt!” he adds pathetically, holding out his arm for Kaoru to kiss it better.

The atmosphere becomes thick and full of meaning. Kaoru leans in with affection in his eyes – Tamaki has always admired the twins’ utter dedication to character – and—

Mei rolls her eyes and flicks Hikaru on the forehead. “Stop that,” she says. “Jeez. One of you seriously needs to get a girlfriend, like, yesterday already.”

Girlfriend! It’s the perfect cue. “So am I right in thinking, then, that _none_ of you are any closer to finding out if Kyoya is actually coming home for Christmas, then?” Tamaki demands. He has to say it loudly; Hikaru is trying to pull Mei’s hair, and there’s a lot of shrieking – mostly from Hikaru.

There’s a lull in the battle. Hikaru and Mei turn, as one, to stare at him. “What have _you_ done, milord?” Hikaru asks sweetly.

Tamaki sits up to his full height. “I left voicemails, singing carols! Waxed lyrical about how beautiful Tokyo is in winter! I wrote a long and persuasive email telling him all about how romantic Christmas can be!” He clasps his hands together. “An intimate meal! The Tokyo Disneyland Christmas spectacle! Holding hands at the Christmas Market! Exchanging personal, handmade gifts! Feeding each other slices of . . .” Tamaki trails off, sensing, somehow, that he’s lost his audience. “What?” he asks, as everyone stares at him.

“Whose hand will he be holding, senpai?” Kaoru says with a snigger. “Yours?”

“No,” Tamaki says with unshakable dignity. “Ha—” He coughs. “Ha-ha-happy Christmas!” he says, recovering himself magnificently. He’d forgotten briefly, that while the ‘Use the Magnificent and Wondrous Power of Nature to Make Kyoya Kiss Haruhi!’ plan is full steam ahead – he has a full half-ton of mistletoe already on order – he’s cunningly made sure everyone _else_ thinks they’re working on the ‘Make Sure Kyoya Comes Home For Christmas!’ plan instead. He can _totally_ be discreet when he has to.

“Oh, has Kyoya finally confessed to Haru-chan, then?” Hani asks, between mouthfuls of cake.

“Obviously not, or he’d definitely be coming home!” Tamaki cries in despair, and then thinks: _whoops_.

There’s a stunned kind of silence, broken quickly by the sound of Akito having what appears to be a heart attack. Tamaki looks at him in sympathy; he has the expression of a man who was poised on the verge of applying for membership of the Rejected by Haruhi club, if he’s any judge.

“Even if it _is_ true,” Akito says, making a heroic attempt to recover, “I hardly think my little brother would appreciate his private business being discussed in public like this.”

“This isn’t public,” Tamaki says breezily. “And it’s hardly private, really. Hands up anyone here who _isn’t_ basically in love with Haruhi.”

That sets Akito off to choking again. Tamaki notices that only Hani and Fuyumi actually raise their hands.

“Well then,” Tamaki says cheerfully.

“Only when she’s wearing boy’s clothes, though,” Mei interrupts. “I just wanted to make that clear.”

“Haru-chan looks lovely whatever she wears,” Hani says through his cake.

There’s a collective pause as they all think about this. Tamaki’s very happy for Kyoya, he really is, but he’d appreciate it if Kyoya would hurry up and give him something to be happy _about_. 

“ _Well then_ ,” Tamaki repeats. “If the ‘Use the Magnificent and Wondrous Power of Nature to Make Kyoya Kiss Haruhi!’ plan is going to be successful, then—”

“The what?” Hikaru asks.

Tamaki turns to him with a special, patient smile. ““The ‘Use the Magnificent and Wondrous Power of Nature to Make Kyoya Kiss Haruhi!’ plan, Hikaru. Keep up! Then—”

“Are we sure Haruhi _wants_ Kyoya to kiss her?” Hikaru interrupts.

“Thousands wouldn’t,” Kaoru agrees.

Tamaki turns to Mei for backup.

“Hey, don’t look at me! _I_ don’t spill my friends’ secrets like a leaky tap,” Mei says, with terrible, horrible heartlessness.

“The working supposition is that Haruhi returns Kyoya’s feelings,” Tamaki says with great dignity after he’s cried in a corner for a while. “Agreed?”

“Well, I agree that Kyoya needs a kick up the bum,” Fuyumi says, which makes Akito bristle in a fine display of family loyalty; Tamaki likes him better already. “But I don’t think he’ll thank you for this, Tamaki.”

“I don’t need him to thank me,” Tamaki says with utter determination. “I just need him to be happy.”

* * *

“What’s Tamaki up to _now_?” Haruhi asks Mei, as she watches Tamaki go up to first Hani, then Mori, then Kaoru, then Hikaru, conducting a whispered conversation with each that leaves him more and more depressed.

“I’m fine!” he calls to Haruhi when he catches her eye. He’s crying a bit. “Don’t worry! We’ll sort it out! It’ll be OK!”

Mei seems torn between an urge to hit him and comfort him. Haruhi quite understands; she often feels the same way. “Well, you know you told me that you’re not sure if Kyoya’s coming home for his Christmas break after all?”

Haruhi nods, feeling an inexplicable urge to be defensive. “He’s been invited to spend it with one of his new friends. He thinks it might be wise to accept.” She shrugs. “He’s still considering it.”

Mei stares at her. “You do _want_ him to come back, don’t you?”

Haruhi considers herself reasonably level-headed. Calm. Unemotional. It’s not that she doesn’t have feelings; she just doesn’t see the point in getting worked up. It doesn’t help, does it? She’s definitely not worked up about the thought that Kyoya might not come home for New Year. That she might not see him until _summer_.

If he even comes home then. He spent last summer travelling.

Oh _God_.

Mei reaches over to squeeze her arm. “Sorry, sorry, don’t look like that! Of course you do.”

“It’s fine if he doesn’t,” Haruhi says, trying to convince herself. And then she connects the dots. “So Tamaki . . .?” she says, as Tamaki lies flat on the floor and rends his hair.

“Yeah, I think Tamaki’s pretty keen to persuade Kyoya to come home too.”

* * *

There are many things that Tamaki likes about Kyoya. He likes how Kyoya grounds his schemes, helping to bring them to beautiful, practical fruition. He likes how clever and quick witted he is, and knowledgeable, and cool and calm, and full of bright ideas. He admires him. And more than that, he loves him. Kyoya is a good person, underneath the veneer of cold-hearted pragmatism. Tamaki’s learned that if Kyoya’s on your side, there’s nothing he won’t do for you.

But sometimes, Tamaki thinks with a gusty sigh, picking up his phone to text Kyoya a photo of a kitten in a Santa hat, despite his awe-inspiring intelligence . . . he’s an _absolute idiot_. So many facts at his fingertips, so many calculations and statistics, and yet he can’t work out the most obvious fact at all: everyone who loves him wants him to be happy.

Tamaki’s finger hovers over a photo of a KFC party barrel, but he decides to hold this festive ammunition back for later. KFC for Christmas is a fine and noble commoner tradition, but he thinks that when it comes to Kyoya, a fried chicken lunch would be best sprung as a happy surprise.

There can’t _be_ a happy fried chicken surprise though, Tamaki thinks with determination, if Kyoya decides to hide in his lonely, commoner’s accommodation in America, too scared to come home and find out if Haruhi’s obvious feelings for him are true.

He sighs again. What he needs to be sure of the glorious success of the ‘Use the Magnificent and Wondrous Power of Nature to Make Kyoya Kiss Haruhi!’ plan – the one essential ingredient that ensures the success of _all_ his plans – is . . . a certain friend called Kyoya Ootori. Still, he has another secret weapon at his disposal – a friend who’s a bit _like_ Kyoya in some ways – doesn’t he?

_Haruhi_ will understand how terrible and lonely and tragic for Kyoya a Christmas vacation away from home would be.

“Kyoya wouldn’t _be_ alone, though,” Haruhi points out, without looking up from her homework, when Tamaki expresses some of this out loud. “He’s been invited to stay with a friend in LA.”

Kyoya is not alone in being an idiot, Tamaki thinks petulantly. Haruhi is one too.

* * *

“I convene a meeting of the ‘Get Kyoya Home for Christmas’ team!” Tamaki declares, handing out hachimaki bandannas, before tying his own round his head. The kanji on his reads FIGHTING SPIRIT!

Hikaru raises a sardonic eyebrow from under his GOOD LUCK! headline. “Given up on the kissing plan, have you?”

“No,” Tamaki says defensively, and points meaningfully to Mei, who sports the patriotic JAPAN!

“What?” Mei demands. “If this crappy headband gives me spots, I’m coming to kill you later, rich boy.”

Tamaki despairs. “JAPAN!” he shouts, which surprises Hani enough to make him fall off his chair. This reaction from a man wearing the word KAMIKAZE! is a bit of a disappointment, but Tamaki allows that even someone as cutely magnificent as Hani can have an off day.

When order is restored, Tamaki says, this time with a little less vigour, “Japan! It’s the key to the whole scheme.”

“Is it?” Kaoru says with interest.

Tamaki despairs. “How will Kyoya kiss Haruhi if he’s not in the same country?” he demands. “Huh?”

Hikaru snickers. “Well, milord, there’s always phone se—” he starts, breaking off with a loud _ow!_ when Mei throws her lipstick at his head.

Tamaki considers this, and then wipes the last five seconds of his memory. He leaps to his feet and bangs his palms flat on the table. “No!” he says, his headband sliding down to fall in front of his eyes. He remains undeterred. “Why are none of you taking this seriously?”

All his friends are terrible and horrible, but once he’s re-tied his FIGHTING SPIRIT!, so tight around his head that he can feel the invigorating pressure on his brain, he feels renewed enough to go on.

“ANYWAY,” he says, “I have discovered some top-secret information!” he says. “As befits the king of the host club and—”

“One of Kyoya’s roommates has invited him to spend the break with him,” Akito says coolly, appearing in the doorway. “Michael Lawson. Mother told me – he called her last night. Michael’s family are in property. A useful connection for the Ootori family. Little brother has done well.”

Tamaki gapes.

“Michael Lawson,” Kaoru muses.

“Isn’t he . . .?” Hikaru adds.

Dramatic music plays in Kyoya’s head. “This is all my fault!” he wails. “Just because I called up Michael Lawson _one time_ , pretending to be Mr Ootori—”

The world goes dark for a moment. Someone tall and slim and wearing a _very_ good cologne, Tamaki can’t help but notice, is trying to tear off his head.

“I forgive you,” he says to Akito when Hani has rescued him. Rage-light sparks once again in Akito’s eyes, and Tamaki decides to move swiftly on. “This Michael wants revenge on me!” he says.

“Good,” Akito mutters.

Tamaki feels his lower lip wobble, but he stiffens both his shoulders and his resolve. “He’s trying to steal Kyoya away from us! There’s only option – I must challenge him to a duel!”

The room falls silent at this strong and manly suggestion.

“I think it’s great Kyoya is making new friends!” Hani says cheerfully. “Let’s leave him to make his own mind up about what he wants to do for his vacation, shall we?”

The world drains of colour. Static buzzes in his ears. Tamaki gazes beseechingly at the other people in the room, but everywhere he looks, betrayal is all he sees. He has one last hope. He turns to Mori . . .

“Yes, Mitsukuni,” Mori says. “I agree.”

* * *

“I still have so many ideas for how to get Kyoya to come home for Christmas!” Tamaki says with bitter determination. He’s hurt – broken hearted – by the break-up of the team, but he doesn’t _need_ them. He has FIGHTING SPIRIT! Not literally – the headband’s in the wash. But _spiritually_ , which is more important by far.

“Mm,” Fuyumi says. She’s half lying on her living-room sofa with her feet up, reading some kind of mother and baby magazine. It’s not the most enthusiastic of receptions Tamaki’s ever had, but since she’s the only one of his friends who answered the phone after he’d finished college for the day, it will just have to do. Besides, Fuyumi still has sympathy with his plan, doesn’t she?

“I could ask Mr Ootori to order him to come home!” he says, springing up from his chair to pace the room. “Or I could ask Mrs Ootori to ask Mr Ootori to order him to come home.” He thinks about this. He doesn’t know Kyoya’s parents very well. “I could ask _Ranka_ to ask Mrs Ootori to ask Mr Ootori to order him,” he amends. Ranka and Haruhi have been round to the Ootoris’ house for dinner a few times recently, haven’t they? “Or I could ask _you_ to ask Mrs Ootori to ask—–”

He breaks off, with a little cough. “Fuyumi,” he says, with all the charm he can muster, “would you ask—”

“No,” Fuyumi says, without looking up from her magazine.

Tamaki broods for a while, until he gets bored. “Or!” he says brightly. “Akito could—” Tamaki stops talking and looks round hastily, just in case Akito is unexpectedly lurking in the doorway. Tamaki remembers him trying to pull off his head; he really must remember to ask him for the name of his cologne. “ _Tachibana_ could . . .” He doesn’t know what Tachibana could do.

Fuyumi rests her magazine carefully on her swollen belly, and looks over at him. “Tamaki?”

“Yes?” Tamaki says, shooting over to kneel beside her.

“If you really want Kyoya to come home . . . why don’t you just ask him to?”

“Me?” Tamaki says, taken aback by this novel idea. “I have!”

“ _Have_ you?” Fuyumi asks.

Tamaki begins to feel a bit like a criminal in a police cell. The light of interrogation is shining on him, and he has no choice but to confess . . . “Well, not _exactly_ , no.”

* * *

_Cambridge_

“Are you going to spend Christmas with Tamaki and the others this year?” Kyoya asks casually. At least, he hopes he sounds casual.

“Yes, Dad’s working as usual,” Haruhi says. She pulls a face. “Tamaki’s determined to recreate a full ‘commoner’s Christmas’, complete with KFC. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten KFC,” she adds doubtfully. “Have you?”

Kyoya definitely isn’t considering a fourteen-hour flight to eat dubious fried chicken. He’s not going back to Tokyo for the winter break at all. He’s going to visit his friend Michael for a few days, and then he has dozens of other invitations he can accept. He doesn’t have to spend a single moment alone, if he doesn’t choose to.

“Tamaki invited me too,” he says.

“Oh! I thought you’d accepted Michael’s invitation?” Haruhi says. Kyoya thinks she sounds hopeful, but it’s entirely possible it’s his imagination.

“Yes, but that’s not for the whole three weeks,” he admits. Maybe she won’t express an opinion, he thinks, feeling a band of tension squeeze at his brain. It would make things so much more straightforward. He doesn’t _want_ to come home, he tells himself firmly. There’s no good reason to.

Haruhi smiles at him though, and he feels all his resolve crumble into nothing. “Will you come home for a few days then?” she says. “It would be really great to see you.”

* * *

_Tokyo: Christmas Eve_

Kyoya was under the impression that he’d been lured home to eat cheap, revolting fried chicken. What he’s doing in a children’s theme park, he has no idea.

He’s aware, of course, that Christmas Eve is primarily a romantic night for couples. He took advantage of this with ruthless efficiency when he was in charge of the host-club finances. But there’s being aware of it in principle – and then there’s _this_.

Everywhere Kyoya looks, all he can see is couples holding hands. The one thing he _can’t_ see is his appalling best friend, who was definitely there just a moment ago. Or _any_ of his other friends – with, of course, one important exception.

He doesn’t want to look over to see Haruhi’s expression; he doesn’t think he can bear it.

“This is . . .” she says.

He braces himself.

“Pretty cute!” she says.

That’s . . . not what he expected. He turns to look at her, and she smiles up at him. “Shall we look around?” she adds. “I’ve never been here before, have you?”

Kyoya has never been to Disneyland before. He’s never even _considered_ going to Disneyland before. It’s dark, and crowded, and the sky is filled with twinkling lights. In the distance, a tacky blue-illuminated castle spikes into the sky; closer to, a larger than life top-hat-wearing Donald Duck and Mickey Mouse sit in an enormous replica sleigh, allegedly pulled by a malevolently-grinning model of Pluto. It’s possibly the most hideous thing Kyoya has ever seen.

He soon revises that opinion.

The crowds sweep them towards – and then into – a large, impressively hideous building decked out to look like some kind of American Wild West shack. Kyoya’s not averse to theatre. But as an enormous animatronic reindeer head kicks off the horrific spectacle that is ‘Country Bear Christmas’, he idly wonders if he can make a charge of ‘crimes against humanity’ stick.

He can feel Haruhi looking at him, and when he half-turns, they briefly lock eyes. It’s . . .

Haruhi starts laughing, bringing her hands up to cover her mouth. She looks a bit like she’s going to die.

“Don’t worry _too_ much,” Kyoya whispers, as an animatronic bear wearing a top hat emerges and starts to play the piano, “I’m pretty sure the performers can’t hear you.”

Haruhi half-collapses against him, hiding her face against his shoulder.

For some reason, after that, Kyoya manages to find the thing almost enjoyable. The bear in a stupid hat with buck teeth . . . the enormous, angry female bear singing a festive song about catching her lover eating honey with a wicked floozy . . . the tiny, evil, singing penguin . . .

“Why are the bears wearing jackets but no trousers?” Kyoya whispers just when Haruhi’s managed to stop laughing – a sensible question in his opinion – and one look at his face sets her right off again.

“Well, I hope Tamaki suffered as much as I did,” Kyoya says when the show’s finally over, and they escape back into the cold, over-illuminated dark.

Haruhi grins. “He didn’t _necessarily_ follow us in,” she says.

“Yes, and he’s not _necessarily_ hiding behind a bush, watching us right now,” Kyoya replies with resignation.

He buys Haruhi a plushie of the bear that desperately needs an orthodontist, even though she tries very hard to stop him, and then, driven by hunger rather than sense, pauses outside the nearest restaurant. It is, with depressing predictability, called the Hungry Bear – and because life is full of strange coincidences, it only serves one meal: curry rice.

They order and sit – trays are involved – and Kyoya pokes dubiously at his sloppy meal. It’s more sauce than meat, and an unappetising brown.

Haruhi reaches out and pats his arm. “I’m very sorry for your pain,” she says solemnly.

“Your feigned sympathy is much appreciated,” he replies with amused resignation, inclining his head. The whole evening has taken on a sheen of implausibility. It feels like a date . . . and yet he’d never willingly take _anyone_ out on a date involving alarming animatronic bears, cheap canteen food and alleged Disney Christmas magic. He wouldn’t willingly take anyone on a date who isn’t Haruhi, he thinks ridiculously. And yet here he is, somehow managing to have achieved the worst of both worlds: a full complement of singing bears, bad food, Christmas kitsch and Haruhi’s company . . . all without it actually being a date.

The knowledge that it could be a date sits awkwardly between them, the animatronic singing elephant in the room. It’s . . . Schrödinger’s date, he thinks, feeling both unsettled and amused. It’s not a date – and yet it’s not _not_ a date. It’s obvious what Tamaki and the others are up to, taking them to a prime date spot and then vanishing into the night. Even someone as occasionally obtuse as Haruhi must be able to work this one out. That she hasn’t raised it – hasn’t laughed about how stupid Tamaki is to try to set them up – suggests . . .

He should have stayed in America, he thinks.

He shouldn’t have flown home, for an overtired, ridiculous not-date with a girl he’s so hopelessly in love with, it’s driving him to distraction.

He can’t say anything. He _can’t_. It would be terrible if she didn’t like him – and it would be even more terrible if she liked him back. She doesn’t fit into his life, into his future plans. He just _wants_ her to, and he can’t see how that’s enough.

“It’s not _that_ bad,” Haruhi says with amusement, and he exits his thoughts with a start. She’s talking about the food, he realises, after a brief, disconcerting moment.

“No, it’s fine,” he says, annoyed with himself that he’s come across as fussy. He eats, and the curry slides down easily, warm and perfectly acceptable if he doesn’t think about it too hard. The conversation flows without much effort, either – but then with Haruhi, it always does. He’s well practised at being charming. At the host club, his mind was always working, considering his guest’s tastes and habits, flicking back through his mental files to draw out titbits of personal information to keep the conversation gently moving. To make his guest feel special – and to encourage her to purchase whatever photo book, or event tickets, or auction item the host club was currently flogging.

When he talks to his new Harvard friends, and to his father’s business contacts, although the _emphasis_ is different, the process is much the same. Maybe that’s one of the reasons he enjoys talking to Haruhi so much, he muses as she tells him about her last couple of end-of-term exams. He’s used to viewing relationships as transactions; but whatever he has to sell, Haruhi’s not the sort of person who’s buying.

It’s even more crowded once they go back outside, the crowds packing in close and the fake streets all but dark. There’s an expectant feeling, but he’s too concerned about losing Haruhi in the crush to wonder what new and terrible hideousness is about to be visited upon them. Before he can suggest they remove themselves from this festive hellhole, however, she slides her arm under his, tucking herself in close to his side, and he suddenly has to put all his effort into making sure he doesn’t trip over his own feet.

They’re in time for some sort of illuminations show, he dimly realises as the crowd make a low _ooooh_ noise of anticipation and some festive music pipes up. An enormous Christmas tree in the distance flickers into vibrant, electric life, and the dark facades of the buildings that line the street come alive with twinkling stars, and flickering candy canes, and twirling cartoon characters. He watches Cinderella dance with her Prince Charming across the dark, the warmth of Haruhi’s body against him, lighting up his own insides. He slides a glance at her to see she’s smiling up at the light show, and his insides do something peculiar.

Fireworks follow. She jumps as the first one explodes, her grip on his arm tightening, and he looks around for a quick escape route. He knows she’s afraid of thunder; it’s childish, he supposes, but that doesn’t make her fear any less real. The thought that she might be scared, even for a moment, if he can prevent it, is unpleasant in the extreme.

“I’m OK,” she says stoically though, when he leans down to ask her if she wants to go.

He’s not sure he believes her, but he gives her the benefit of the doubt. And when the next firework explodes across the sky, so loud it’s almost painful, she jumps, leans in closer . . . and then slides her arm down his to hold his hand extremely tight.

It’s cold, and neither of them are wearing gloves, but Kyoya feels like his skin is so hot it’s burning.

* * *

If Tamaki’s lurking in a bush somewhere outside the exit when they finally leave, it’s not obvious, and Kyoya lets out a silent sigh of relief.

He’s still holding Haruhi’s hand.

They’re not talking about it, and it’s not _awkward_ as such, but Kyoya feels nervous to the point of stupidity. It’s almost a relief when he has to let go, to help her into his waiting car. But once he’s in beside her, he doesn’t know what to do with his hands – or with his face. It’s lucky it’s dark; he’s trembling with something he suspects might be as simple as plain old terror. Haruhi is quiet too, staring out the window, her face half hidden by her hair.

The journey drags, and yet it passes much too fast. In no time at all they’re outside Haruhi’s apartment block, and he gets out to walk her to her door.

“That was . . . more fun than I imagined it might be,” he says, a little awkwardly.

She smiles and raises the buck-toothed bear she’s been carrying under one arm in acknowledgement. “Thanks for the horrible souvenir.”

He needs to wish her goodnight and go. He’s going to wish her goodnight and go. “I’m looking forward to eating more terrible chicken with you tomorrow,” he says instead.

“While wearing Colonel Sanders pyjamas,” Haruhi adds solemnly.

Kyoya opens his mouth to ask, and then decides he doesn’t actually want to know. “Goodnight, then,” he says.

She nods. “I had a good evening, thank you.” She sounds sweeter than he usually thinks of her, and he’s suddenly overcome by a wave of affection. Her hair is tousled by the wind, and her nose is red with cold. And it’s OK to do this in America, he’s learned – a thing a sophisticated, European friend might do – so he does it: he leans in and kisses her cheek.

A tidal wave of colour sweeps over her face. “Goodnight, senpai,” she says, and then seems to have some difficulty using her front-door keys.

“Kyoya,” he says.

She finally manages to fit the key in the lock, but instead she turns to him, her eyes wide.

“Please call me Kyoya,” he says, fixing his eyes on somewhere just over her shoulder.

He’s not sure how he expects her to react. Embarrassment, maybe, at this intimate request. He certainly feels embarrassed once he’s said it, as if he’s overstepped some important invisible line. “I’m sorry, that was—” he starts, but breaks off when she reaches out to touch him lightly on the arm.

“Thank you,” she says simply, withdrawing her hand as she finally turns the key and opens the door to go inside. “I will.”


	10. All I want for Christmas . . . is a KFC

_Tokyo: Christmas Day_

Tamaki bursts into a spontaneous, joyfully discordant rendition of Beethoven’s Ninth as he stands back to admire the magnificent decorations that have taken his household staff the best part of four hours to put up.

They began as soon as his father had left for work, early that morning, accompanied by his grandmother. Christmas falls on a Friday this year, which Tamaki considers a stroke of luck. It’s not that he couldn’t carry out his plan with his family in the mansion – he scoffs as such minor inconveniences – but at the same time . . . His grandmother does have a very stern look when she thinks he’s doing something silly.

“Master Tamaki,” Shima says sternly, but he’s not finished singing.

He takes her hands and twirls her round. “Da da da da, da da da da, da da da da, daaaaaaaa da da!” he warbles. He doesn’t know the words, but he’s never let a small thing like that hold him back.

“Master _Tamaki_ ,” she says, once the twirling has ended. She dances well for a woman pushing ninety.

“Yes?” he says affectionately, and sweeps out a hand to take in the grand entrance-hall of Suoh Mansion #1. “Is this not magnificent?”

Shima sniffs and eyes the decorations with ill-concealed despair. Tamaki is crushed for a moment, before he remembers that she’s not in on the plan. OK, OK, so the festive Christmas greenery is a little heavy on the mistletoe, perhaps, but there’s at least five percent tinsel in there somewhere. He hasn’t overdone it. He’s just making sure.

There’s a small, soft noise from above their heads, and Tamaki glances up, as if his head’s connected by a string. The chandelier is dripping with mistletoe, and as he watches, another berry falls, this time to land squarely in his eye.

“Argh!” he says, but he’s distracted by another, more urgent thought. He should kiss . . .

Shima takes a deft sidestep out from under the chandelier. “When are your guests expected?”

Tamaki feels a stab of hurt that she doesn’t want him to kiss her. “In an hour,” he says with great and pained dignity, only dented somewhat by the way his foot slips on a berry, and it’s only by a festive miracle that he doesn’t end up on the floor. “Show them through to the dining room if they arrive before I’m ready,” he says, raising his chin in the air. “I’m off to change into something more suitable.”

* * *

Tamaki takes his time dressing in his festive finery. There’s a chance that Kyoya and Haruhi won’t arrive together, thus rending his chandelier trap useless, but he’s not particularly worried. The ‘Use The Magnificent and Wondrous Power of Nature to Make Kyoya Kiss Haruhi!’ plan doesn’t rely on such one-trick tactics. No, Tamaki thinks as he admires himself in his full-length mirror, he’s planned for all contingencies. Mistletoe is wired to every ceiling in the entire house. Tom Cruise in _Mission Impossible_ could manage to avoid it; Tamaki is content that talented though Kyoya may be, Tom Cruise he is not.

When he’s ready, he troops back down to the hall and sits happily on the bottom stair. As he waits for his guests to arrive, he sighs with contentment. So far, his plan is going swimmingly. Kyoya is back for Christmas – and romance is in the air. It’s possible, he thinks with bittersweet pleasure, that Kyoya has already confessed, rendering the mistletoe pointless.

Tamaki sighs again, this time more gustily, and leans his head against the baluster. Last night had been perfection, despite the minor deviations from his original. The problem was, he hadn’t bargained on quite how _cute_ Disneyland would be. Hani was the first casualty, wandering off after a Santa-san-suited Minnie Mouse before Mori could stop him. “Sorry,” Mori had said, before also vanishing into the night.

But then Hikaru and Kaoru had linked arms with him, and together they’d stalked their prey into a place of great glory. Music! Passion! Bears! Tamaki was quite overcome. It was, he thinks dreamily, possibly the best thing he’d ever, ever seen. He’d been so overcome, in fact, in the gift shop afterwards, loading down the protesting twins with everything in sight, that he’d only remembered about Kyoya and Haruhi when it was too late. But, he thinks with renewed determination, that hardly matters, does it? The Country Bear Christmas can’t have failed to work its festive romantic magic. His job is all but done.

* * *

The Country Bear Christmas has failed to work its festive romantic magic.

Tamaki feared as much as soon as Kyoya arrived, but he receives the dreadful confirmation when Kyoya takes one look at his festive Country Bear Christmas montage – a full set of plushie souvenirs, in pride of place in the centre of the dining room – and turns every single bear around to face the wall.

It’s a bad start, but Tamaki knows just the thing to break the tension. “Do you like my outfit?” he asks rhetorically. He knows Kyoya will. They _all_ will. He has a Colonel Sanders Christmas pyjama set for them all.

For some reason, however, the gift of a Colonel Sanders Christmas pyjama set fails to lift Kyoya’s spirits. And by the time everyone but Haruhi has arrived, Tamaki has decided he might as well go and join the bears staring at the wall, for all his hard work and festive spirit is appreciated.

Haruhi is his last and only hope. “ _You’ll_ wear my gift, won’t you?” he says beseechingly as he presses her set into her hands.

“Sure,” she says, and it only occurs to him to see how she’s reacted to Kyoya when she’s already wandered off to change.

To Tamaki’s great delight, however, once Haruhi has shown herself willing to dress up, the others soon vanish to put their new clothes on as well.

“I’ll remember this,” Kyoya says brightly when he returns from changing, and Tamaki is briefly concerned for his own safety, until Hikaru and Kaoru re-join them – also glorious in red and white cotton – and start laughing so much that the vengeful glint in Kyoya’s eye turns to actual violence. He lunges for the nearest bear, with evil intent, and the only thing Tamaki can think of to stop him from using his new furry friends as projectile weapons is to sit on him – and so he does.

Haruhi chooses just this moment to come back.

“. . . I’ll remember this too,” Kyoya says with extra blood-curdling cheerfulness, from somewhere underneath him.

The twins look at each other and then turn, as one, to point to something, up above Tamaki’s head. “What’s all that, senpai?” they chime.

It’s . . .

“Argh,” Tamaki says, as Kyoya – none too gently – shoves him off.

* * *

On the bright side, Tamaki thinks some time later as he executes a forward roll to take himself out of the danger zone, Haruhi _does_ look very cute. On the dark side . . . not everything is entirely going to plan.

Kyoya’s ungentlemanly-like behaviour is making him brood. It’s not that he _wanted_ to kiss Kyoya – and he certainly doesn’t want to kiss him now, the cad! But to find that his best friend would rather bruise him than pucker up for a little festive magic . . . it’s a painful spiritual blow.

“You’re only injured because you rolled on to the bear with the gun,” Kyoya says unsympathetically, when he expresses this thought.

The base ingratitude rankles, but Tamaki has no time for this. He has to stay on the move. For the moment he pauses, either Hikaru or Kaoru advance on him, terrible glints in both of their eyes. If Tamaki was open to politely kissing Kyoya in theory, the same does not hold true for the Hitachiins. He shudders as he star jumps out of Kaoru’s way. The twins have shown time and time again that they are not to be trusted, and Tamaki’s not ready to put his first proper kiss at risk.

He only pauses when the food arrives – oh glory be! – and Haruhi grabs him by his collar and forces him sit down.

“Behave!” she tells the twins.

It’ll probably be fine, Tamaki thinks. But just for good measure, he picks up the bear with the gun.

“I wish Fuyumi was here,” he sighs though as he beholds the glory of the KFC premium Christmas feast. A whole chicken with a parmesan crust accompanies a miscellany of deep-fried chicken lumps. There’s a gloriously vibrant salad of unidentifiable vegetables, dyed a festive red and green. A bottle of champagne – no, he amends looking more closely – chammery, whatever that is, emblazoned with Colonel Sanders-Santa-san’s face.

“We agree,” the twins chime.

“That would mean less for all of us,” Kaoru says.

“Which would be a shame,” Hikaru adds.

For some reason, Tamaki feels as if they’re not being entirely genuine. But he lets it go. “There’s plenty more in the kitchen!” he says cheerfully.

Mei – who’s been very quiet up till now, Tamaki realises, possibly because she’s so happy to be wearing matching Colonel Sanders pyjamas, she’s overcome – coughs. It sounded a bit like, “Idiot,” but Tamaki knows a cough when he hears one.

Still, Mori cracks first, picking up the chicken bucket and politely passing it round as Tamaki pours out generous glasses of the sweet, fizzy, non-alcoholic wine. “Cheers!” they all chorus before drinking, and then are quietly occupied in doing their polite bests not to choke.

Once actual champagne is acquired from the Suoh’s capacious wine cellar, the meal slips down much more easily. As Tamaki eats, he shoots surreptitious glances at Kyoya and Haruhi, who have contrived to sit as far apart from each other as possible. Kyoya is irritatingly normal, engaging Mori and Hani in conversation and failing to shoot any lovelorn glances at Haruhi – unless, Tamaki thinks with FIGHTING SPIRIT!, he’s doing it on the inside.

Haruhi gives him a little more to work with, to his delight. She keeps glancing over at Tamaki’s forlorn bears, with a restrained, thoughtful kind of smile that indicates she’s experiencing some kind of deep emotion she’s trying to hide. It’s a very excellent sign. When Haruhi and Kyoya get married, he thinks as he chews pensively on a chicken wing, perhaps they’ll let him hire Disneyland for them as a wedding present. The Country Bear western theatre would make the ideal place to exchange their vows.

Indulging himself in romantic daydreams turns out to be a fatal mistake, however. Just as the bear-suited priest is about to pronounce the happy couple man and wife . . .

“Aaaaaagh!” Tamaki cries as he receives two enormous sloppy kisses on his cheeks, one from each twin.

* * *

“That was . . .” Kyoya says as he slides into his car next to Haruhi. He’s started the sentence, but he finds he’s not sure how to continue. “Well, it _was_ ,” he says, which makes her laugh.

“It was fun, right?” she says, her eyes crinkling, and Kyoya is reluctantly forced to agree.

It’s ridiculous how cute she looks in her Colonel Sanders outfit. He suspects he carries it off rather less well. But oh well, he thinks, looking at her smile. It’s not like he’s not used to wearing outlandish outfits. He just hopes none of the others will be senseless enough to post photos online. If he’s ever asked to model for an advertising campaign for fried chicken, his fee is much, much higher than even KFC can afford.

The outfit is just one line in a long list of things that Kyoya thinks Tamaki deserves to be punished for. But at least Tamaki got his comeuppance for the mistletoe, Kyoya muses, tasting the delicious, chicken-flavoured schadenfreude on his tongue.

When he’d arrived at the Suoh mansion to find a house that was now built more solidly of mistletoe than bricks, he’d half considered turning round and going straight back home. It was only the thought that he’d disappoint Haruhi – and, selfishly, that he’d disappoint _himself_ if he didn’t see her – that had him walking in through the mistletoe-covered front door.

He needn’t have worried, though. Tamaki had laid an excellent trap, it soon became clear . . . for himself. Mei had proved a very effective stalker, Kyoya thinks with amusement, once the twins were done.

Still, Tamaki’s well-deserved punishment hadn’t entirely taken away the awkwardness of it all. He doesn’t need any help kissing Haruhi. It’s taking everything he has in him to not lean over and do it right now. It doesn’t help, he supposes, that this is likely to be the last time he sees her before he has to return to America. Tomorrow will be busy, and the following days even more so. To Akito’s obvious dismay, their father has ordered Kyoya to accompany him on his usual whistle-stop end-of-year tour of every single one of his family’s chain of hospitals, to greet the senior staff and offer traditional New Year best wishes. It’s flattering, and Kyoya is extremely pleased, he tells himself. Isn’t this what he’s always wanted?

The car pulls up outside her apartment building. It’s late, but he can see the lights are on. Something in him unknots, and he accepts her invitation to come up and have a cup of tea. It’s cowardly, he supposes, but that Ranka is obviously home is a source of relief. He’s felt so wound up these past two days that he’s ready to snap with the stress of it. He wants to confess, and yet he doesn’t. He wants _her_ to confess, but he still has no idea what he would say if she did. He loves her so fucking much, he thinks, his insides doing something unpleasant. But he’s still terrified by the idea that she might love him too.

He’s hardly going to make a decision in front of her father, though. He can have some tea, hand over his gift for her and then go.

. . . He really, really doesn’t want to go.

Still, there’s no point in brooding, he thinks as Ranka sweeps him into a hug, laughs at their matching outfits and then joins him at the living room table as Haruhi goes to make the tea. He really likes Ranka, he thinks as Haruhi’s father regales him with stories from his day – and to his pleasure, he’s fairly sure Ranka likes him too.

They all talk for longer than they should, given the early time of Kyoya’s upcoming flight. But it’s OK, Kyoya supposes. He’s spent a lot of time recently feeling like death; another early start will hardly make things worse. When Haruhi stifles a yawn though, he takes the hint she clearly didn’t mean to give. And it’s already gone one a.m., he discovers when he glances at his watch.

“I . . . here,” he says, pulling the wrapped gift out of his bag and sliding it across the table towards Haruhi. “This is for you.”

Ranka yawns and stretches, ostentatious and false. “I’ll wish you both goodnight now. I need my beauty sleep,” he says, and then adds sotto voce to Kyoya, “remember that I’m just next door!”

“Night, Dad,” Haruhi says, taking a sip of what must now be stone-cold tea.

“Goodnight, Ranka,” Kyoya says politely. “It was good to see you.”

When Ranka’s slid his bedroom door almost – but not quite – all the way shut, Kyoya clears his throat. Only couples exchange Christmas gifts, and he knows the way this must look, but he can’t quite bring himself to lie and say he’d intended it as a New Year gift instead. “You don’t have to open it now,” he says instead. In fact, he’s not sure he wants her to open it now. He’s afraid of very little, but now it comes to it, he finds he’s afraid of _this_.

Her fingers hover over the carefully wrapped book. “I haven’t wrapped yours yet,” she says, with a nervous glance towards her bedroom that somehow makes him believe she’s actually telling the truth.

“That’s OK.” He goes to rise, but she pulls the gift towards her, so he settles back down instead, hoping for the best.

He thinks she’ll like it. No – he _knows_ she’ll like it. But it strikes him, as she carefully peels off the wrapping paper to reveal the slightly lumpy book, that it’s not his place to give it to her. Still, it’s too late for regrets. He braces herself as she opens it up, a wrinkle of confusion in her brow, and tries to work out what exactly he’s given her.

“That’s . . .” she says, as she lands on a page of photos. “Kyoya, what . . .” she says as she continues to flick through, speeding past print-outs of emails and pages of his own careful handwriting transcribing long, rambling telephone calls . . . past pasted-in greetings cards, cinema ticket stubs and school reports . . . It’s a record of a life enthusiastically, but all too shortly, lived.

“It’s . . . a scrapbook, I suppose,” he says awkwardly as she turns to look at him. Her eyes are uncomfortably wide. “Ranka helped a lot, of course. I tracked down a number of your mother’s friends, asked for anecdotes. Photos.” He feels an overwhelming urge to fidget. “I thought . . . you might like to know your mother better. See her through her old friends’ eyes.” He looks away from her, when she doesn’t reply. “I apologise if I’ve made you uncomfortable. That was not my—”

He’s not sure how the physics of it are possible, but before he’s finished speaking, she’s got her arms around his neck. It’s less than comfortable. She’s holding him much too tight, and her head is pressed so firmly against his that his glasses cut painfully into his nose.

He doesn’t complain. She’s crying, he soon realises.

“I’m sorry,” he says again later. Some time has passed. He has no idea how much. His face is wet, and he doesn’t know how to describe what he’s feeling, except that whatever it is, it’s much too much. He can’t regret the gift, but he feels raw, exposed at being the giver. He was thinking too much of his own feelings, he realises painfully, when he should have been thinking of hers. “It was a poor idea for a present,” he adds quietly against her hair.

She pulls back at that, scrubbing her face with the back of her hands, and he looks round desperately for a box of tissues he can offer. There’s one lying close to him – _suspiciously_ close – on the floor. Kyoya makes a mental note to thank Haruhi’s interfering, eavesdropping father later, and grabs it, sliding it over to her and then turning his head to afford her some privacy as she blows her nose and wipes her eyes.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she says, and he turns to look at her, unsure if she actually means it. She’s smiling, but it looks like it hurts.

He believes it more though when she pulls him over to sit next to her and picks the book back up.

They sit there together in silence as she reads. They’re so close that their thighs are touching, her body a hot, firm press against his own. He _should_ go home; it’s so late it’s the next day. Or, he supposes, he could put his arm around her. He could lean in even closer. He could . . .

But he doesn’t. He just sits there as her mother’s unseen life unfurls in front of her like a flower, and feels very, very grateful that he’s allowed to be a part of Kotoko’s daughter’s life at all.


	11. Ps: I love you

_Tokyo_

Haruhi spends the next week with her mother.

Oh, some other things happen, she’s sure, but when she’s not reading the stories about Kotoko, she’s dreaming them. It’s not that she didn’t feel like she knew her mum before. Her father talks about her often enough, telling affectionate stories of the woman he loved. She heard some stories too from Yuko, her mother’s old college junior, before the former Suoh family’s lawyer quit her job and moved away. And it’s not like Haruhi doesn’t remember her at all, but it’s like grasping at a bubble. She was only five when she died. Some days she thinks she remembers only what her father’s told her, and her imagination – her desperate longing – has simply painted pictures of what she wishes she could see.

But now, it feels like someone’s drawn back the curtain to give her a painful, _wonderful_ glimpse of the mother she always wished she knew. Her mother’s school friends . . . her college classmates . . . her former colleagues . . . Haruhi reads all their stories, looks at the photos, and feels . . .

Well. She feels bruised, if she’s honest. But it’s a good kind of bruise.

Kyoya’s included a list of contact details for everyone he’s tracked down. It takes her a few days to pluck up the courage to call, but once she does, she’s once again overwhelmed by people’s kindness. She listens – and she learns.

It feels like surfacing from a freezing pool when she finally emerges from her almost dazed, dreamlike state to find it’s already the New Year – and her father is smiling at her.

“She was a good woman, your mother,” he says affectionately, and pats her on the head. “And your Kyoya,” he adds just as affectionately, “he’s a good boy too.”

_Your Kyoya_.

“Yes,” is all Haruhi finds that she can say.

* * *

“I can’t believe we have to go back to school so soon,” Mei says with deep gloom as she flicks through a rail of discounted dresses.

“Mm,” Haruhi says. It’s the first of January, and she and Mei met up much too early to queue up for the first sale of the year. She was up much too late the night before as well, to make sure she could greet the new year with her father after he’d come home from his shift.

“I can’t decide if I should buy a couple of dresses or go for a lucky pack,” Mei says, still flicking. “I can’t afford both. What do you think?”

“Mm,” Haruhi says. “Yes.”

She realises this wasn’t the answer Mei was looking for when her friend folds her arms and raises her eyebrows.

“Ah, sorry!” she apologies. “I was just thinking about . . .” She trails off, unhappily aware it’s all too obvious.

“You should be thinking about your exams, rather than boys,” Mei says with what Haruhi thinks is deep, unforgiveable hypocrisy. “We’re both sitting the National Center Test in two weeks’ time, aren’t we? And don’t you have other entrance exams as well?”

Haruhi’s eyes flick to the clothing rail and back.

“What?” Mei says with a pout. “I can’t be revising _all_ the time.”

“I’m not thinking about boys,” Haruhi protests, a bit too late for it to be effective. Mei’s already gone back to browsing.

“No?” Mei says as she pulls a dress out and holds it in front of herself, before putting it back with a discontented frown.

Haruhi opens her mouth. “Well, maybe just a little,” she admits, feeling herself go a bit red.

“I think I’ll get a lucky pack, after all,” is all Mei says in reply to this confession though, and once again they join an enormous queue.

After a couple of hours’ hard shopping – or rather, Mei dragging her round department store after department store until her feet hurt – they collapse in a café and order an early lunch. Mei rips into her lucky packs before the food arrives, pulling out tops, skirts and dresses with amusingly mixed results. Haruhi welcomes the distraction; it takes all her strength to resist being the ‘lucky’ recipient of Mei’s unwanted haul, and despite her best efforts, she still comes away the new, reluctant owner of a pair of pastel pink shorts and an enormous hairy jumper featuring a picture of an adorable bear.

“Model them for Kyoya,” is Mei’s unhelpful response when she protests, and the thought is so appalling that Haruhi decides she’s better off letting that one go. Besides: “Please tell me _one_ of you’s confessed yet,” Mei says after their noodles have arrived.

Haruhi has the excuse of having her mouth full. When she’s swallowed, she no longer has that excuse, so she fills her mouth again.

“Oh. My. _God_ ,” Mei says.

“I’m still not sure he . . .” Haruhi says weakly, trailing off at Mei’s dumbfounded stare.

“That he _likes_ you?” Mei asks.

Haruhi nods, even though that’s not exactly true. She knows Kyoya likes her. She even thinks he loves her. But there’s still a tiny, horrible voice in the back of her head that’s not convinced he likes her _that_ way. Not in the way she wants him to. He’s proved he’s the best friend she could ever hope for, but . . . what if that’s all it is?

“Oh come _on_ ,” Mei says, rolling her eyes. Her sarcastic italics are so strong that Haruhi can hear them out loud. “Don’t be _ridiculous_ , babe. If he liked you any more he’d be here right now on one knee, and it’s only a matter of time before _that_ happens if I’m any judge.”

Haruhi feels all her blood rush to her cheeks. “Now who’s being ridiculous!”

Mei sits back and checks off her sentences on her fingers as she says them. “He calls your dad every week. He calls _you_ basically every day. He flew home _twice_ to spend a stupidly short amount of time with you. You have dinner with his parents practically every week now!”

Haruhi twitches. “Yes, but—” she starts, but Mei’s not finished.

“You’ve hugged! You’ve kissed!” she points out.

“On the cheek!”

Mei snorts. “He’s bought you thousands of thoughtful presents. He made you that _book_ , didn’t he? Seriously, Haruhi. I don’t know what he’s playing at by not saying his feelings out loud, but if you’re judging him by his actions then he’s _screaming_ that he loves you, as far as I can see.” She sits back and folds her arms. “Oh, and his best friend already told you, ages ago, that he’s in love with you,” she adds, as if she’s only just remembered. “I would have thought you’d have seen that as a bit of a clue.”

Haruhi is aware her jaw is hanging open. She shuts her mouth with a snap. “ _Mei_ ,” she says.

“What?” Mei says, picking up her glass of orange juice and taking a long, noisy slurp through the straw.

Haruhi isn’t sure. She feels strange – light-headed and peculiar, as if a mild breeze could knock her over. It’s lucky she’s sitting down, she thinks, while at the same time she feels desperate to stand up. To do what though?

Confess, she thinks. And then she feels a bit nauseous. She’s going to do it though, she decides. She’s sick of being stuck in this limbo. It’s unsettling, and unnerving, and she just needs to pull herself together, gather all her courage and . . .

He’s not here to confess _to_.

“Write him a letter,” Mei suggests with a shrug. “You’ve got your return gift to send to him anyway. Write it, send it to his Harvard dorm, and then it’s done. He won’t get it for a week or so anyway, will he? He’s still travelling about with his father until then.”

Haruhi doesn’t need this pointing out to her. Kyoya’s barely texted her, let alone called her, and although it’s fine – she’s been so preoccupied with his gift she’s barely had the space to think about it – she misses him so much that she’s actually looking forward to him being back in America and so much further away. She doesn’t expect him to carve out time for her when he’s away with his father on business. She knows he views his father as a strange combination of all-powerful god and computer-game final boss. She just . . .

“We could always ask Tamaki’s advice,” Mei says thoughtfully, her fingers twitching towards her phone.

Haruhi is ready to fight to the death, to stop Mei from calling Tamaki. “If you call Tamaki, I’m posting a picture of you in Colonel Sanders pyjamas on the internet,” she threatens.

Mei goes white. “You wouldn’t!”

Haruhi firms her jaw. “Yes,” she says with heavy emphasis. “I love you very much, Mei, but I _totally_ _would_.”

* * *

That evening, Haruhi gathers all the packing materials she needs, and sits down in her bedroom to prepare her return gift to Kyoya.

_I hate you xxxxxxx_ , Mei texts as she does so.

Haruhi looks at this for a while, and then gets up and dresses in the pink shorts and ridiculous hairy jumper, taking a quick – ludicrous – photo and sending it to Mei.

_OMG_ , Mei responds, lightning fast. _I typoed there – I meant I definitely love you xxxxxxx_

Haruhi smiles, before turning back to her task. She’s re-potted her tiny Bonsai weed in a solid but beautiful Tokoname-ware container. The glaze is blue and dappled, and the pot is worn at the edges, through years of use. It’s second-hand, of course – she couldn’t afford a new one – but Kaoru had helped her choose it, and she thinks it’s nice enough that Kyoya won’t be offended. Besides, the plant is the gift, really, rather than the pot. It’s still wild and untidy, but she likes it – and although she doesn’t tend towards sentimentality, she does feel a touch sentimental about this.

He’d hoped she’d send him a photo of its progress in fifteen years. She hopes he’s changed his mind; she’d rather they watched its tiny progress together, minute by minute, hour by hour . . . year by year.

She spends a considerable amount of time packing the plant and making sure it will arrive at its destination safely, before she turns to the card she’s set aside for the purpose of writing him an explanatory note. Should she write him a proper letter instead, she ponders, the thought making her feel shaky as Mei’s words echo in her head.

The blank card stares at her now, white and empty, and she almost loses her nerve to write anything at all, before she tells herself off firmly and picks up her pen.

It’s nearly bedtime by the time she’s finished, and she’s barely said anything at all, but she still feels drained, as if she’s written a ten-thousand-word essay. She can’t re-read it without cringing, but she does so anyway; she can’t help herself. It’s a perfectly normal card that a friend might send, she thinks. Polite, friendly, appreciative of his gift.

The only thing that marks it out as different is what she’s written at the end.

_Ps: I’m sorry to tell you like this, but I can’t help it: I’ve fallen in love with you._

It makes her feel like she’s thirteen to read it. Except when she was thirteen, she didn’t confess to anyone. She’s _never_ confessed to anyone. Maybe she can be forgiven for being a little bit pathetic about it, she thinks as she puts the card in an envelope, seals it up and puts it in the box with the plant, before sealing that package up too.

The box feels very heavy as she takes it to the post office the next day and pays through the nose for express delivery – but even though she’s shaking slightly at the thought of what she’s done, she feels like a different kind of weight’s been lifted off her when she’s left the shop again and it’s too late to change her mind.

She’s _done_ it, she thinks, and texts as much to Mei. Whatever happens next, it’s entirely out of her hands.

* * *

_Cambridge_

Kyoya touches down in Boston airport at nine a.m. and by ten he’s already taken part in two brief conference calls.

He doesn’t manage to catch his breath until much later that evening, when he finally returns to his dorm room, exhausted almost beyond comprehension and ready to fall into bed and sleep for at least a thousand years. He wants to call Haruhi tomorrow, but he has to be reasonable, he tells himself as he yawns so widely his head nearly splits open. He’s been awake for over twenty-four-hours straight. If he’s woken up in _two_ days’ time it’ll be some kind of new year miracle.

His time with his father has left him – not exactly unsettled, as such, but definitely suspicious. He’s always presumed he had plenty of time before he’d have to make any decisions about his future – or, more to the point, before his _father_ made any decisions about his future. Four years at Harvard. Two or three years in a variety of roles at the Ootori Group to give him a good overall grounding in the business. Four more years at Harvard to study for his MBA. Only then, a good decade on from now, did he think his father might make any kind of decision about which Ootori son would inherit the empire.

He spent years thinking it would be Yuichi – and then he met Tamaki. Things are very different in the Ootori family now.

But that still doesn’t change the fact that he’s nineteen. He’s at the start of his college education, not the end. It seems unlikely in the extreme that his father has already made a decision. Has decided which son to groom as his inheritor. Has decided, more to the point, on _him_. But Kyoya can’t stop his brain from unhelpfully whirring, considering possibilities, weighing up hints and unspoken signs and clues.

Their father always makes his yearly trip to the family’s several-hundred hospitals alone, leaving Yuichi nominally in charge in his absence in case of unforeseen emergencies. It’s his chance to meet with all his top officials, to thank them for their hard work, to give them gifts, to reinvigorate or threaten, depending on results. At least – that’s what Yuichi told him, when his brother was helping him prepare for the trip. To Kyoya though, it felt more like a never-ending series of personal introductions. He’s met more people in a week than he feels he’s met in his entire life. He can’t think why his father wanted him to meet all his key medical and administrative staff, apart from one blindingly obvious – ludicrous, presumptuous – reason.

His father has decided, or all but decided, which of his sons to make his heir.

Kyoya needs to go to bed. He needs to sleep, and then sleep some more. He’s driving himself mad with theories that can’t possibly be true, and he’s been spending too much time driving himself mad anyway these last few months. _Haruhi_. Images flash in his mind, intense and unstoppable. Her smile as she gazes up at Cinderella and Prince Charming dance across the sky. Her red face after he kissed her cheek. And her eyes, bright with tears, her smile shaky, as in his imagination – he has a very vivid one these days – she puts down the scrapbook he made about her mother, and turns to him to say _I love you_.

There’s a good chance, he thinks acidly as he opens his dorm’s main front door, that if he doesn’t switch off for a while, he’ll need to check himself straight in to one of his own hospitals.

He greets the roommates who’ve arrived back before him, and forces himself to chat for slightly longer than is technically polite – it’s not their fault he’s so tired his bones ache – before he turns to go to his own room.

“Parcel arrived for you,” Michael says cheerily though as he turns, and indicates a large cardboard box smothered in parcel tape sitting in the corner of their common room. Even from here, Kyoya can see that the international stickers and stamps mark it as having arrived from Japan.

His heart lurches, but he thanks Michael and picks the parcel up, carrying it to his room and placing it carefully on his bed before he sits carefully down beside it too.

He knows it’s from Haruhi, and for some reason, this makes him scared to open it. He stares at it for a while, as if it might bite, but his vision blurs, and he comes to with a start. If he doesn’t open it now, he’ll fall asleep on it, he reasons, so he fetches a pair of scissors and carefully cuts it open.

There’s a card, but he sets that aside for a moment, working to pull out the contents of the box. There’s so much padding that for a while he can’t tell what it is, until suddenly he can, and he laughs, taken aback but also pleased. She’s sent him her weed. He can see the shape of the tree now, after several months of Haruhi’s careful tending, but Bonsai take years to grow – and hours of attention along the way. It’s not what he’d call a low-maintenance gift. But he likes it anyway. The pot is different from the last photo, he notices fondly. It’s beautiful – understated and subtle, in a way that suggests she knows his tastes better than he might have suspected. He feels strangely charmed by it all.

He lifts the pot carefully and places it on his desk, a safe distance from the edge, then sits back on his bed and admires it for a while. It’s only when he’s nearly nodded off again sitting up that he remembers she included a card, and he gropes for it, slitting open the envelope carelessly with his thumb.

He skims it, smiling, and then—

For a while, he’s not sure he can breathe.

He tugs at his shirt collar, but that doesn’t seem to help. He can actually feel his heart beating through his skin – throbbing in his head, in his arms, in his whole body. It’s like every nerve ending in his body has exploded all at once.

He reads it again, and it still says what he’d thought it said the first time.

_Ps: I’m sorry to tell you like this, but I can’t help it: I’ve fallen in love with you._

He wants to be happy, but he can’t manage to feel anything except panic. A grey, cloying sensation that settles on him like a heavy, choking blanket.

He stands up, desperately needing air, but he can’t seem to make himself go outside. His roommates are in the common room, might bump into him, might ask him what’s wrong, and what could he tell them? _The girl I’m in love with is in love with me too_. There’s something very wrong with him that this is a problem, and not the best day of his whole fucking life.

His feelings for Haruhi have always been unnerving. Distracting. Miserable, if he’s honest with himself in a way he rarely is. But it’s only recently that he’s thought of them as stupid – and stupid is exactly what they are. What _he_ is. He has a golden opportunity here at Harvard, and he’s in danger of squandering it, spending more time mooning over a girl back home than he is doing anything practical or useful. And Haruhi . . . if anything, the last week with his father has only thrown into sharper focus a problem that he’s known about – has angsted about – for all this time. The only thing she brings to the table is herself. No family background. No connections. No influence.

No merit to the Ootori Group at all.

If he accepts her confession – if he responds with his own – what will that do to his chances of inheriting? He doesn’t even know if he _wants_ the Group, but the thought of not being offered it is . . .

For a short moment, Kyoya hates himself so much he thinks he’s going to be sick. But it clarifies his mind, at least. If he was half the man he wants to be, he wouldn’t even consider such things. He is who is: an ambitious, calculating _coward_. And Haruhi? Well, he decides. She deserves so much better.

He should wait until the morning until he ruins everything, he thinks, but at the same time he can’t stop himself. There’s no way he’ll be able to sleep until he’s done it – the only thing he can do.

He pulls out his phone and pulls up Haruhi’s name on LINE. Then, with hands that refuse not to shake, taps out: _Thank you for your gift. I appreciate your warm wishes, and I hope we can still remain friends._

He doesn’t want to remain friends. The thought of seeing her again is worse than anything.

Half-blinded by tears, he pauses for a brief, horrible moment.

And then he hits send.


	12. Coffee, alcohol and regret

_Tokyo_

Haruhi doesn’t allow herself to think about it too much; she’s far too busy. And besides, her mother would be disappointed in her if she screwed up her exams just because she’s made a small, albeit amazingly stupid, mistake. There’s only one person to blame for the unpleasant situation she finds herself in now, and she finds it helpful, really, that it’s her.

It’s not Kyoya’s fault she misread things so badly, seeing romance where there was only friendship. And it’s not Mei’s either; she told her so, when Mei rang the doorbell shortly after Haruhi had forwarded her Kyoya’s response. Mei was crying. Strange, Haruhi thinks numbly. She thinks _she_ should be the one who’s crying, but she can’t seem to feel much of anything at all.

It’s useful, though, given her upcoming exams. She studies, she crams, she revises, until she’s little more than a walking, barely talking, learning machine. It’s not too different to her classmates, though, so people barely notice. And when the first day of the National Center Test arrives, in the middle of January, she’s not surprised that she finds it . . . Easy would be too strong a word. But fine, certainly. After the second day, when she’s completed all thirty multiple-choice tests, she’s confident she’s passed with marks to spare.

She’s still nervous though, when Mei sits with her the day after, an answer sheet Mei’s cram school has just emailed over lying on the table between them, small and almost illegible on Mei’s phone. They both compare their answers – carefully copied down for just this purpose at the end of each test – with the unofficial results. It’s a relief. Mei has scraped a pass; Haruhi has, it seems, done even better. She tears up for the first time since . . . the last time she teared up. It’s better not to think about that. When she gets home she spends a long time in front of her mother’s shrine, just sitting there, staring at her mother’s warm, smiling face.

The next exam arrives, and then the next. It seems a little overambitious in hindsight that she’s chosen to sit so many. She’s fine with Ouran University, isn’t she? But since she’s applied, she goes through with them anyway, and . . . they’re fine too. Even the LSAT: the exam that would allow her to apply to American law schools, if she decides that’s what she wants.

It’ll soon be too late, in any case. The deadline for Harvard passes at the end of January; she looked it up what feels like a lifetime ago now.

Haruhi’s almost disappointed when she finally finishes her exams and has time to stop and think. She doesn’t want to. It’s like waking up from a bad dream, to find that what she’s dreamed is actually real. Or has she woken up from life, to find that life was the dream and the nightmare was the real world all along? She feels ridiculous, overwrought. She doesn’t think like this – she doesn’t _work_ like this. She’s the sensible, level headed one, isn’t she? It makes it worse, somehow. That she’s rejected so many confessions – worse, hasn’t even _noticed_ so many confessions – and never realised just how much it can hurt.

The numbness is wearing off, she realises – and as soon as she does, she desperately wants it back.

“Want to talk about it?” her father asks. It’s Friday evening, and he’s due in work in half an hour, but right now he’s still very much Ryoji rather than Ranka. Stubble, loose hair, baggy T-shirt . . . all topped with a concerned expression.

“You’ll be late,” she says, dodging the question with practised ease.

“Oh, I called in sick,” he says airily.

She narrows her eyes to stare at him, and he brings his hand up to his mouth to hide a very put-on cough. “You were fine a minute ago,” she accuses.

“It came on quickly!” he says, widening his eyes in hurt appeal. “Keep your sick father company for a while, will you, Haruhi? I’ll make us both a cup of tea.”

Haruhi takes an unwilling seat in the living room, and as he whistles tunelessly – and oh so healthily – while the kettle boils, she wonders what excuse she can give to run away. She’s still sitting there, though, when he returns, handing her a ceramic handless mug of green tea that’s almost too hot to hold.

“If you don’t want to talk to me,” her father says pensively after he’s sat down next to her, immediately abandoning the sickness pretence without visible shame, “that’s fine. But do you want me to call one of your friends?” He blows on his tea. “I wish your mum was here,” he says to himself, a little sadly. “She’d have been so much better at this than me.”

It’s a little humiliating that it’s so obvious what’s happened, but she tries not to mind, until something even worse occurs to her: “Did _Tamaki tell you_?”

She hasn’t spoken about it to Tamaki. She hasn’t spoken about it to anyone but Mei. But she knows Mei’s given their friends the bare bones of what’s happened, and that’s why they’ve been giving her the space she so obviously needs. The thought that they might continue to try to set her up with Kyoya was just too horrible for her to keep it private, and she’s grateful beyond measure that the host club – who are born to interfere – have, by all appearances, this time left things well alone.

Her father’s bewildered reaction makes her sag in relief that this continues to be true. “Tell me . . .?” he asks tentatively. “Ah . . .” He takes a sip of tea. “I don’t know exactly what’s happened,” he says, giving her a gentle shoulder bump. “But Kyoya’s stopped calling me, and you . . . you’ve stopped looking happy, despite how well you did in your exams,” he adds quietly. “Even someone as stupid as me can work something like this out.”

“You’re not stupid, Dad,” Haruhi says to her mug, her eyes feeling hot and sore.

“I’ve declined all the invitations from the Ootoris to dinner,” he says, as if he’s only just remembered. “They keep asking, but I told them you were concentrating on your studies. I think your friend Fuyumi would love to see you, though, when you’re feeling up to it.” He makes a dubious noise. “Akito dropped by a few times, but I thought he would be a drain on the general mood, so I hope you don’t mind that I sent him away.”

Haruhi sips her tea, feels the hot liquid warm her from the inside.

“And I keep sending those handsome host-club boys away too,” her father says airily. “Pests, the lot of them. They sent a lot of fairly stupid presents – there’re enough sweets in that bottom cupboard over there to last us weeks, if you fancy it.” He snorts. “I had to refuse delivery of a kotatsu, only the other day. As if we have the space to put it!”

Haruhi finds she’s smiling, even though she’s not sure if she actually feels better at any of this news. Has she really been so oblivious to _everything_ over the past few weeks? She . . . she turned her phone off, she remembers with a start, after she’d sent a text to Mei. She can’t remember if she ever turned it back on. It didn’t seem necessary, somehow.

“Your gardening club friends – Hiroshi and Kasanoda, was it? – dropped by to leave you a couple of plants,” her father adds, nodding in the direction of a line of greenery she can’t remember seeing before. It’s a profusion of herbs, she realises, recognising the bright-red sansho pepper berries and the springy green leaves of wasabina mustard. “They knew you had exams, they said,” her father explains, before she can start to panic that _everyone she’s ever met_ somehow knows she’s had her heart broken. “They wanted to wish you luck and hope to see you at the club again soon.”

_Knows she’s had her heart broken_ , Haruhi thinks again. Is that what’s happened? She’s not sure she feels broken, exactly. Just . . . really, _really_ tired. And sort of . . . flat, somehow. As if there’s a heavy weight on her, sapping all her energy. It’s hard enough to put one foot in front of the other. She can’t imagine ever finding the willpower to do anything, or enjoy anything, or even be excited about anything, ever again.

She supposes, now she thinks about it, that that might qualify.

She goes to fetch her phone and a charger, and then returns to the living room to turn it on, her father sitting quietly by her side. She doesn’t expect to see any messages from Kyoya, and she doesn’t, but it’s still hard. She misses him so much. When had he become her best friend, she wonders, but she can’t pin it down. They’ve always been close, even before he moved away and became essential, but she can no longer untangle how she feels enough to work it out. It doesn’t matter, anyway. If he’d wanted to still be her friend, he wouldn’t have sent her that cold, dismissive LINE message – he would have called.

If Kyoya hasn’t called though, he’s the only one, she soon discovers as the messages and missed-call notifications continue to flood through. No one’s given up on her, she realises with a painful, bittersweet lurch. All of her friends have kept on texting – cute chirpy messages, photos, jokes, and rows and rows of hearts and kisses. Even as she looks at her phone now, a message from Tamaki comes through, with a time stamp that’s basically ‘now’. He’s sent her a picture of a miniature bear made of carefully-cut carrots, swimming in a sea of curry.

“Thanks, Dad,” she says, her eyes watering as she looks at the cute, tiny, edible bear. “Now go to work and stop malingering.”

He laughs. “You sure?”

She nods – and calls Tamaki back, before she can change her mind.

* * *

_Cambridge_

Despite the US licensing laws – and despite the significant number of inconveniently scheduled conference calls his father invites him to join – Kyoya still manages to spend a significant proportion of his January free time drunk.

He’s not proud of himself, exactly, but he’s not stupid about it either. He doesn’t have a fake ID, and he doesn’t want one. He does, however, have an active membership of the Porcellian, a very large budget and a lot of new friends who treat the law as a friend they can reliably manipulate, rather than as something that tells them ‘no’. The alcohol blurs things enough to allow him to switch his aching brain off for a few dizzy hours, in a way he can’t seem to manage without its help.

It seems suddenly ridiculous to him, in any case, that he should go to Harvard – become a student – and not take advantage of all the things that student life has to offer. He has four years to study; a few weeks where he doesn’t concentrate on his classes is hardly going to make a difference. And if he’s honest – which he tries not to be right now – he likes that he has something he can blame his constant splitting headache on. He’s determined not to regret his decision. But it’s a resolution that, to his horror, grows more and more difficult with every passing day.

The morning after he’d sent the text to Haruhi, he’d woken up – although ‘woken up’ is too strong a term for the minimal amount of poor-quality sleep he’d managed – and had regretted everything. He’d almost picked up his phone and called Haruhi to beg her to forgive him, until common sense, aided by a vat of coffee, had taken over.

That he loves her is no reason to ruin his life over it, he’d told himself firmly. He would be fine. He’d get over it. All he needed to do was hang in there – and given a little time, things would soon sort themselves out again in his head.

Now though, as January prepares to tick over into February and Kyoya tries to concentrate once again on his studies, instead of just the constant, beguiling demands of both Ootori Group and his social life, he wonders drearily when he’ll start to feel better. It doesn’t help that none of his Tokyo friends appear to be speaking to him. Although . . . that’s not exactly how it is, he thinks uncomfortably as he stares at his phone at the end of a long day to find he’s had many messages and missed calls, but none from his friends at home. It’s not that they’re _not_ speaking to him, so much as when he didn’t respond to any of their messages, hung up on all their concerned phone calls, they finally stopped trying. He’s grown used to endless messages from Tamaki, he realises uncomfortably. To his sister calling him every five minutes. To everyone he loves just checking in to see if he’s OK.

He can’t believe he used to find it irritating. 

Without Fuyumi nagging him, without Tamaki pestering him, and without Haruhi just . . . being Haruhi, his life seems smaller, somehow. Diminished, even as his days get busier. His new friends . . . his new business contacts . . . his father . . . everyone seems to be demanding an unreasonably large amount of his time, and that’s before he’s even considered his studies. Kyoya even begins to wonder if it would be wise to skip a class or two and come to an agreement with his professors; he’s always been a straight-A student, but this is college. He’s heard rumours of the existence of the so-called ‘gentleman’s B’.

And soon, another obligation rears its unwanted head. Tachibana clears his throat in the car late on Friday evening, as he’s driving Kyoya home from a business dinner, and says apologetically, “Master Kyoya, sir, the wife says you’re to come round this Sunday for lunch. It’s been too long.”

Kyoya feels a flash of bad temper – he can think of little less he’s in the mood for than being gently told off by Mrs Tachibana, even if it’s all that he deserves – but he likes Mrs Tachibana, doesn’t he? And he feels . . . lonely, perhaps, even if he doesn’t entirely want to admit it. So he just nods and says, “OK.”

* * *

“I’m sorry I haven’t been round recently,” Kyoya says apologetically after lunch is over and the children and their father have allegedly all gone off to play.

“Come and help me in the kitchen,” Mrs Tachibana says in response.

Kyoya braces himself. But for a while, it seems as if all she wants is some actual help, and he’s not so high and mighty that he’s going to object to that. He loads the dishwasher while she decants leftovers into Tupperware – his appetite’s embarrassingly appalling at the moment – and then sets the kettle on the stove to make them both a cup of tea.

He’s still stacking when she leans back against the countertop and asks gently, “Are you sleeping all right, Kyoya? You’re not looking very well, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

It’s the first sympathy he’s had in what feels like forever. He doesn’t think he deserves it, but he feels something inside him crack, anyway. “I’ve . . . fallen out with Haruhi,” he mumbles to the crockery. “It was my fault,” he adds quickly, in sudden dismay at the idea that Mrs Tachibana might side with him over it. He absolutely doesn’t want to go into any further detail though.

Mrs Tachibana waits until he’s finished, and then guides him into the living room before passing him a strong, milky, highly sugared cup of English breakfast tea. It’s not to his taste, really, but it’s hot and sweet, and as he drinks he starts to feel marginally more himself again, his headache receding into the background to become merely painful rather than active agony.

“I’m sorry to hear about you and Haruhi,” Mrs Tachibana says, just when he’s beginning to relax.

“It’s fine,” he lies.

“Such a lovely girl,” Mrs Tachibana points out, as if he could have failed to notice. Her tone grows sympathetic. “I remember the first time I confessed to a boy and was turned down – I spent a week crying!”

It’s not that Kyoya minds Mrs Tachibana thinking he’s the one who’s been rejected, but it feels dishonest, somehow. “Ah, that’s not—”

“But I knew that he was the boy for me!” Mrs Tachibana says triumphantly, shaking her head in what appears to be a happy memory. “I told him I’d wait for him forever, if that’s what it took – and look at me now! Seventeen years married next month,” she says dramatically.

“Well, congratulations,” Kyoya says uncomfortably. “But—”

“Of course, not to _that_ particular boy,” Mrs Tachibana interrupts mischievously. “I got bored of waiting after a couple of weeks and decided to confess to his best friend instead. That one went _much_ better.” She takes a pensive sip of tea as Kyoya blinks at her. “Got a best friend, has she?”

Kyoya’s had quite enough. “Mrs Tachibana,” he says sternly. “I think you already know that Haruhi was the one to confess to _me_. If she wants to go out with Tamaki, then—” He presses his lips together as the words _it’s fine by me_ refuse to come out.

It’s Mrs Tachibana’s turn to blink, it seems – at _him_. “You turned Haruhi down . . .?” she asks, as if it’s come as a surprise.

Kyoya feels his nostrils flare with emotion he can’t adequately control. “Yes,” he says, as coolly as he knows how.

“But . . . why?” Mrs Tachibana asks, as if she can’t stop herself. “When it’s so obvious you love her!” She stops, and presses her lips tightly together. “Forgive me. That was not my place to say.”

Kyoya doesn’t want Mrs Tachibana to have a ‘place’, except for as his older, evidently so much wiser, friend. “Things aren’t as simple as that,” he says, his throat feeling very tight. “Haruhi’s not . . . I mean . . .” He can’t think of a way to describe it that doesn’t sound terrible. Because it _is_ terrible, he thinks.

“But your parents love her,” Mrs Tachibana points out. “Tachibana’s always telling me how—” She breaks off. “I mean, not that he would share your family’s confidences if he overheard them, you understand,” she says meaningfully, and gives him a hard stare.

“Of course not,” Kyoya murmurs.

“ _And_ ,” Mrs Tachibana continues, “since you’ve been in America and your friendship with her has really blossomed, I have to say, Kyoya, you’ve been a much . . .”

He waits, trying not to grind his teeth.

“. . . nicer person,” she says, in a rush, and then looks at him, as if she expects to be sacked on the spot.

He can’t sack her, he thinks with irritation. She’s not his to sack. And anyway, if he went around sacking loyal staff for giving him compliments, even of the backhanded variety, the Ootori Group would soon be in trouble.

“More helpful,” she adds firmly. “Kinder. Less . . . Ootori.” She flaps her hands at him as he frowns at her. “Not that there’s anything wrong with your family, Kyoya dear. But you have to admit, your father can be a bit old-fashioned in the way he runs things.”

He doesn’t have to admit _anything_ , if he doesn’t want to; particularly something he’s not sure of the truth of. Cold . . . unhelpful . . . old-fashioned . . . She paints an unappealing picture of his family, and he simultaneously rejects and accepts it. “Your point,” he says, losing patience in how she’s dancing around it. “What is it?”

Mrs Tachibana smiles at him and pours him out some more tea. “It’s none of my business, of course, dear. But I thought a bright, ambitious boy like you would have more sense.”

He chokes.

“You don’t _have_ to give up everything you want in an attempt to become your father,” she adds brightly, offering him a biscuit. “Don’t you have confidence that you’ll succeed anyway, if you try just being you?”

* * *

_You don’t_ have _to give up everything you want in an attempt to become your father._

Mrs Tachibana’s words rattle round in his head long after he’s left her apartment and headed back to his dorm room. He has plans for the rest of Sunday, but he cancels them all. He’s not in the mood for socialising. He’s not in the mood for anything much. _An attempt to become your father_. Is that really what he’s doing? And if he is – is that so bad?

After all, he admires his father, more than any other businessman he’s ever met. The Ootori patriarch is an undoubted expert in negotiations. Unmatched in getting the best deal for the Ootori Group. Impossible to read, and thus impossible to trick. He’s everything Kyoya wants to be in business: his greatest inspiration . . . and his greatest rival. But at the same time, Kyoya can barely remember the last time they’ve talked about anything that’s not business. The last time his father praised him for anything that wasn’t related to the Ootori Group. School was a parade of parents’ days and school festivals without his father there to see him shine, and while Kyoya’s learned to be OK with that, it wouldn’t be . . . accurate, exactly, to say he’s always found it easy.

Unhelpful . . . Cold . . . Unkind . . . It’s like looking in a fairground mirror to see everything he knows reflected back at him, distorted and ugly. He can’t agree with Mrs Tachibana’s implications – and yet he can’t completely deny them either. 

Mrs Tachibana’s wrong on one thing though. He wants to impress his father, but he doesn’t want to _be_ him. He wants to be _even better_. And how can be possibly reach that goal – prove it to be true – if he’s not first made his father’s heir?

All of the choices he’s made since he met Tamaki – since his eyes were opened to the possibility he could be _more_ than just the Ootori third son – have been in aid of that. All his small but important rebellions. His decision to join the host club, to study abroad, to choose economics rather than medicine . . . Every single step in his path has been taken with the express aim of increasing the likelihood of being named heir – of a company he’s still not entirely sure he wants.

. . . a company he’s _not entirely sure he wants_.

The stupidity of it reverberates so hard in his brain, it feels like someone’s reached out and shaken him. Has he really – the thought is terrifying in its intensity – _given up Haruhi_ , just for that?

Kyoya’s had enough of making hasty decisions that turn out to be based on emotion rather than logic. So he lets his new feelings – his new conclusions – sit there in his chest, in case they go away. But the sensation that he’s been an unspeakable idiot – that he’s sabotaged his own happiness without good reason – is there the next day when he wakes up, and it follows him to his classes, tugging at his shirt in a needy demand for attention whenever he tries to do – or think – anything else at all.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks the next morning when he wakes up and, if anything, feels worse. He’s calling his father before he’s fully thought it through. But that’s OK, because he doesn’t _need_ to think it through. This time, terrifyingly, he’s certain that what he’s doing is right.

“What is it, son?” his father says impatiently, picking up after the first ring. “I’m busy – can’t it wait?”

“I apologise,” Kyoya says politely but firmly, “but no. It can’t.”

“Hm,” his father says, and there’s a grudging respect to his voice now that wasn’t there before. “Well? Spit it out.”

Kyoya doesn’t think, he just says it. And it comes out: “I’m thinking of proposing to Miss Haruhi Fujioka. I’m not asking for permission – I just wanted to tell you.”

His father snorts. “Is that all? I thought it was something urgent. The girl doesn’t turn eighteen for a few days yet. Speak to my assistant and we’ll schedule in a meeting to discuss it. Now, I have a call arranged with—”

Kyoya feels like he’s trained for months to face a terrifying, man-eating dragon – and found that said dragon likes playing with kittens and eating sugar lumps. _“Father,”_ he interrupts, before it’s too late and he finds himself talking to the dial tone. “I . . .” He swallows hard. Manages to keep an even tone as he says, “So in principle, you don’t object?”

“To a future lawyer joining the family?” his father asks, as if he’s said something stupid. “Suggest to her she specialises in company law and commercial property,” he adds thoughtfully. “That would be most useful, if she’s to work beside you and support you and your brothers properly.”

Kyoya clears his throat. He’s finding it hard to think. “She won’t graduate for a few years,” he says weakly.

“Well, neither will you,” his father says impatiently. “But that doesn’t prevent us from thinking about the future. The decision is, of course, up to her – but if you will listen to an old man’s advice, when a man is as busy as I expect you to be in future, Kyoya, he misses his wife. If she works beside him in his office, he is all the happier for it. Now, I have someone waiting on the other line. We’ll talk about this in more detail later,” he says – and just like that he’s gone.

Kyoya sits and stares at his phone for a few minutes, feeling curiously calm. He suspects it’s shock, numbing him into something false. He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’s going to like what comes next.

What is he going to _do,_ though? His mind churns, refusing to settle. He could . . . do absolutely nothing, he supposes. Carry on with his day. With his degree. With his life. There’s a lesson in here somewhere that he could learn from, he thinks, but can’t decide what it is, only that it fucking _hurts._ He could call Haruhi up and apologise, tell her he likes her, and – on the frankly unlikely supposition she’s willing to give him another chance – doom her to an unsatisfactory long-distance relationship for the majority of the next decade. Or, it seems, he has an Ootori-sanctioned option: he could go home, go down on one knee, and ask her if she’d like to become his wife.

If the first two options are impossible, the last is surely just as mad. Haruhi would never say yes to such an unexpected, and probably unwelcome, offer. . . would she?

Kyoya sits there for a few more minutes, aware he’s not so much thinking as panicking. Then—

_Fuck it_ , he thinks for the second time that morning. He picks up his phone again and makes two calls: the first to the college office to request a personal leave of absence, and the second to summon the Ootoris’ private plane.


	13. Legally Brunette

_Tokyo_

The deadline for Harvard applications passes. Haruhi wakes up on the morning of February first, turns the page of the physical calendar on her bedroom wall to a new, much blanker page, and thinks . . . thank goodness.

It’s not like she was planning to go to Harvard in the first place. It’s too expensive, particularly when compared to Ouran University. She liked Boston well enough, but it’s far enough away from home and family for it to be a drawback, rather than a positive. And although she can, she supposes, see the appeal of turning her life upside down to follow the boy she loves all the way to America in the hopes he’ll change his mind, she’s much too sensible to consider it a genuine option.

Now the deadline has passed, it’s much easier to think that – and believe it. She can’t make a crazy decision any more, even if she wants to.

Life is not a romantic comedy, and although Tamaki and Mei seem to have joined forces in recent days to try to persuade her that’s not true, she’s not suitable to be the protagonist of one, in any case. Tamaki had cried in a corner for a while, after he and Mei had forced her to watch _Legally Blonde_ and she’d still flatly refused to fill out an application to Harvard Law. But Haruhi thinks her two idiot friends have missed the point of the film, in any case. As far as she can see, Elle Woods learned two things: that the man she followed to Harvard wasn’t right for her, and that she was actually pretty good at law. Haruhi hopes she can learn those two lessons right here in Tokyo, all for a much cheaper price.

New day – new month – new, albeit painful, start.

She doesn’t feel optimistic, exactly, as she drags herself out of bed to shower, put on her school uniform and face the new, post-deadline world. She hurts too much for that. But she has a lot to be grateful for, she tells herself firmly. She has a home and a father she adores. She has friends who love her, even if their well-meaning attempts to make her feel better sometimes end up making her feel ten times worse. And last, but very much not least, she knows that all her hard work is very soon to pay off. She’s passed the Center Test, hasn’t she, meaning her place in Ouran University’s law department is guaranteed. A few more years, and she’ll have achieved the thing she’s been dreaming about all her life: she’ll be a lawyer, just like her mother. And on top of all that, it’s her eighteenth birthday tomorrow. Maybe, she thinks dubiously, she might even manage to enjoy it.

Rationally, Haruhi knows it’s not the end of the world if the boy she likes doesn’t like her back.

If only knowing that _helped_ , though, she thinks glumly as she leaves for school. For while it might not be the literal end of the world that Kyoya doesn’t love her, she still can’t stop herself from feeling like it is.

* * *

Haruhi doesn’t manage to enjoy her birthday, but it’s not through want of effort. She feels ungrateful, but it’s as if the harder everyone tries, the more she can see the hole in her life that no one but Kyoya will ever be able to fill. She doesn’t think she’s being melodramatic about it, particularly. It just is what it is, and there’s no point in pretending it’s not true.

Her birthday’s on a school day, so she spends most of it at Ouran, surrounded by her friends. Classes have wound down now that examination hell is over, and the atmosphere is less strained. The twins spend the morning pulling pranks on everyone, in an obvious attempt to make her laugh, and the gardening club steal her for most of the afternoon. They’ve baked her a cake using carrots grown in the Ouran greenhouse over winter. It’s too small for the number of people in the club, so when she shares it out it’s more of a crumb each than an actual slice, but that somehow makes it more delicious. She still doesn’t have much of an appetite, anyway.

A sushi feast follows at the Suoh main mansion – and Haruhi can’t eat much of that, either. Tamaki does a reasonable job of pretending not to notice that she doesn’t even fancy the tuna, while Hani and Mori slip so many strawberries on to her desert plate that if there’s a light breeze she’s in actual danger of being buried alive, but mostly they’re pretty normal with her. She’s glad of that; it makes things easier.

And after the food, there are gifts. “For our almost law student!” Mei, Hikaru and Kaoru say simultaneously as they present her with an exquisite trouser suit they’ve designed and sewn themselves. Hani and Mori give her a subscription to a seed club, while Tamaki’s apparently bribed a local allotment association to allow her to transcend the ten-year waiting list and claim ownership of a tiny plot of earth. There are gifts from Akito and Fuyumi too, even though they’ve both politely sent their apologies for missing the meal: a family issue, apparently. Haruhi appreciates their kind politeness in avoiding her, but she’d rather get the awkwardness over and get back to being friends again. Fuyumi’s baby must be due in under a month now, she thinks wistfully. It would be strange not to see her again before it’s born.

It’s all perfect enough that Haruhi can almost forget for a while that Kyoya’s not there. That he doesn’t love her enough to even want to be her friend any more, no matter what excuses Tamaki and the others keep trying to make for him.

Almost, but not quite.

* * *

When Haruhi arrives back at her apartment, later that evening, she’s only slightly surprised to see a light in the window. Her father has a shift this evening, but he has a long and irritating history of bunking off work on her account. It’s one of the things she loves about him, even as she wishes he’d put himself first for once. She’d always rather miss him than have him get a telling off from his boss. Still, a tiny, selfish part of her is glad he’s home.

“I’m here,” she calls as she opens the door.

Her father zooms over to sweep her up in an enormous hug. “Welcome home, old woman!” he replies enthusiastically.

As Haruhi disentangles herself to take off her shoes and coat, she stares at her father suspiciously. He looks . . . happier than he should be, even bearing in mind that it’s his only daughter’s eighteenth birthday. She wonders what he’s up to, and if she should be worried.

“Ahhh, my little girl is all grown up now,” he half sings, clasping his hands together and doing a twirl. “An adult! Ready to spread her wings! To move out! To—”

“Actually, I thought I’d stay at home while I study, if you don’t mind,” Haruhi interrupts, which makes him pout. “Save some money. And I’m not technically an adult until I’m twenty, anyway.”

Her father’s pout widens, until his bottom lip is practically a shelf. “You _are_ ,” he insists, and then brightens right up. “You can vote! You can drive a car!” he says, and then his face falls. “I’m sorry I can’t afford to buy you a car,” he adds with infinite gloom.

Haruhi manages not to roll her eyes. “It’s fine, Dad. I don’t need one.”

“ _And_ ,” he continues, now so excited he’s practically vibrating, “you can even get—” He breaks off and scratches the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “No, let’s sit down for a while before we talk about that.”

Talk about what? What can she ‘get’? Haruhi’s suspicions that a terrible plan is afoot grow even deeper. “You haven’t been planning something with Tamaki, have you?” she asks.

“No!” her father replies, all wide eyed innocence. “Not Tamaki.”

This is hardly reassuring.

“Sit down and I’ll pour us both a drink,” her father says, a bottle of champagne appearing as if by magic in his hands. “Since we’re both adults now!”

“I can’t buy alcohol until I’m twenty either,” Haruhi says implacably, but her father doesn’t wilt, just winks at her and pops the cork.

It’s not her first drink by far, but she hasn’t drunk often enough yet to really appreciate the taste. It’s strong and strange, and the bubbles make her feel light-headed and odd, so she puts the glass back down before the sensation can get any worse.

Her father smiles fondly at her and passes her an enormous pile of gifts – all of which she knows, without opening them, will be clothes designed expressly to make her look cute. “Thanks, Dad,” she says anyway, but he pouts at her, so she gives in with a shrug, reaching for the nearest package.

It’s clothes, yes, but . . .

“I thought you might like some more formal things now you’re a star lawyer of the future!” her father says, when she stares in mild shock at the pile of neat, professional outfits. Not a frill in sight. “I . . . may have overdone it,” he adds sheepishly, looking at the wobbling tower. “But my daughter is worth it! Ah, Haruhi,” he says, a misty nostalgic tone entering his voice, “your mother would be so proud of you, you know.”

Haruhi’s never been one for tears, but she finds a few sneak out now, catching her by surprise – and making her father flail so hard they dry up almost right away.

“No, don’t stop crying tears of joy!” her father demands. “I want to continue our touching bonding moment!”

She _definitely_ can’t manage any more tears now. “Thank you,” she says anyway, and kisses her father on the cheek, which makes him smile.

“I have another present for you,” he says, and a strange look comes over his face. She can’t describe it. It’s almost regret, but mingled with something nicer. “It’s . . . not from me,” he says, which makes her feel peculiar, “and it’s . . . not exactly a present either, now I come to think of it,” he adds, with an awkward tinkly laugh.

“What is it?” Haruhi asks, because that seems the easiest way of making him get to the point.

“Well,” her father says, and then gets up from the table, going into his bedroom and returning with a well-filled letter-sized envelope. “It’s . . .” He doesn’t pass the envelope over, and he doesn’t say anything for a moment either.

Haruhi is just starting to feel seriously unsettled – is this some secret eighteenth-birthday legacy from her mother? Is she _actually living in a J-drama?_ – when he says, his expression more serious than usual, “I took some time off work today, sweetie, because this afternoon I had a . . . meeting with someone. About you.”

A tiny seed of . . . something sprouts inside her stomach, but she waters it with weed-killer. “What _about_ me?” she asks. “If you’ve rented me a studio apartment without asking . . .” she adds, remembering the earlier part of their conversation.

Her father shakes his head though, and then looks at her – strange and steady. “I’ve had an approach from another family who are looking for a wife for their son.”

The sheer _bizarreness_ of the words that just came out of her father’s mouth leave Haruhi unable to form actual words for a few shocked seconds. Then, “No,” she says. “No.”

Her father flails at that. “Hang on, hang on, hang on!” he says. “You haven’t heard about it yet!”

Haruhi opens her mouth to protests in the strongest of terms – she doesn’t _need_ to hear about it! The whole idea is ridiculous! – but her father has his hands up in front of him as if he’s trying to sooth a frightened horse, and he looks so . . . well, _weird_ about it, that she sighs and reluctantly gives in. “Well?” she says, when he doesn’t continue.

He smiles at her for a moment, warm and . . . confusing. “I think it’s worth considering,” he says. “They’re a very good family, with an excellent background and a thriving business. Everything a doting father might want for his daughter. And their son is undeniably bright and ambitious.” He pauses, his mouth doing something odd. “He’s a good boy, I think. Even if he _is_ an idiot that I really, really want to punch,” he adds unexpectedly, raising one hand in a not very threatening fist and screwing up his face. “I hope you’re proud of me that I’m not actually planning to!”

The world has gone slightly odd for Haruhi. It’s as if everything is off-balance, tilted into senselessness. She wets her lips. “Um, what?” she says.

Her father slides the envelope towards her. “His details are in here for you to look at. Why don’t you take them to your room and have a read.”

Haruhi looks at it. She can’t seem to bring herself to pick it up.

“Ah, I was only nineteen when I met your mother,” her father says, seemingly out of nowhere. “But I knew instantly that she was the person I wanted to be with forever – and I was right. I’ll never meet someone like her again.” He gives her shoulder a little encouraging push. “It’s never wrong to follow your heart, Haruhi. I’ll be here for you, whatever you decide. I just wanted you to know that.”

Haruhi lets herself be pushed. She picks up the envelope and carries it to her bedroom, feeling a bit like she’s holding an unexploded bomb. She unrolls her futon, sits on her bed, and then . . . looks at it. What does she want to be in it? Or, more to the point, _who_? It – it would be good if it was a stranger, she thinks. But if it’s a stranger, why is her dad dropping such heavy handed hints that’s it’s someone she knows?

It’s not a stranger. She can’t even make herself pretend that for a minute. But if it’s not a stranger, then that leaves two options. One horrible . . . and the other impossible. If it’s someone she knows . . .

 _Please let it not be Tamaki_ , she thinks, as hard as she knows how. It’s just the kind of mad, generous, gentlemanly, _terrible_ thing he might believe to be a good idea. She loves him, she appreciates him, she _adores_ him. But she definitely doesn’t want to marry him. Besides, she silently tells the ominous envelope, this cool, traditional approach to marriage is definitely not Tamaki’s style. If he was going to propose he’d . . . he’d . . . hire an elephant and ride it down the street to her house, she thinks with something that’s closer to hysteria than amusement, and shout his proposal from the top of its head.

Best case scenario, she thinks, still unable to actually pick the envelope up, is that it’s one of her Ouran schoolmates. A shy acquaintance from another class. But she can’t make herself believe _that_ either. She has a healthy sense of self-worth, but she’s always been aware of the gap in social status between herself and the other Ouran students. She thinks it’s stupid, but that doesn’t make it any less real. Arranged marriages . . . the ‘first look’ omiai meetings between potential matches and their parents . . . these are things for the children of elite families, not for someone, well, _normal_ like her.

Who, of all her friends, might . . . ask her out in such a strange way? She can’t think, her thought refusing to settle. Not Hani – he’s dating Reiko, isn’t he? Not Mori. Not Hikaru or Kaoru. Bossa Nova . . .? It seems unlikely that a yakuza heir would ask her out via her father, on the whole. That only leaves . . .

A sensation of dread grips Haruhi with its cold, bony hand. She wants it to be Kyoya’s name in that envelope, so hard she feels hot and shaky with it, but it won’t be, will it? She knows, with a flash of certainty, that it’ll be Akito’s. After all, it makes a terrible kind of sense. Akito likes her, but he’s uptight about marriage in the way that only a serious, studious middle son of a successful elite business family can be. He wouldn’t marry without his parents’ involvement. And . . . he’s the kind of honourable, pragmatic man who might see the girl his younger brother hurt, no matter how unintentionally, and want to put things right.

Well, Haruhi thinks as she squares her shoulders, at least if it’s Akito, the decision is an easy one. She’s never going to marry for money or stability or status. She’s going to marry for love – and if she can’t do that, she’ll stay single for the rest of her life.

She’s suddenly bored of herself and of her delusions that somehow, by some miracle, the universe will give her a magical happy ending. So she picks up the envelope, unseals the flap, and – closing her eyes because she’s not _that_ brave – pulls the contents out.

She sits there for a moment, feeling the paper under her fingertips, her heart beating so hard she feels unwell. But she’s never been a coward, or afraid to face what comes next, and it would be a shame to start now. So she opens her eyes, and looks down at the papers in her hands. There’s an invitation card, handwritten in very fine calligraphy, and under it some kind of personal file. She flicks past school reports and medical history, business accomplishments and bank records, lineage notes, hobbies, driving license . . .

All, it seems, for someone called Kyoya Ootori.

Haruhi shuts the file with a snap. She doesn’t want to peer through Kyoya’s private details. She doesn’t know why his family have sent them to her in the first place. It seems premature to be happy, and she can’t seem to make herself stop shaking, let alone consider even trying to smile. She’d wanted to see Kyoya’s name, but now she has, she feels as if she’s been plunged into some sort of humiliating matchmaking trap. The thought that his parents are, after all, just as meddling as all her friends, looms at her, plausible and horrible. Nothing makes sense. Kyoya’s in America. Kyoya sent her a cold, horrible message in response to her confession, and then didn’t want to even still be friends.

She turns to the invitation, and finds that it is, after all, from his parents, inviting her and her father to join them at the Ootori mansion on Saturday for an omiai. That doesn’t make sense either, she thinks dizzily. How can she and Kyoya have a ‘first meeting’ if they’ve already met – and if Kyoya won’t even be there? She turns the invitation over, to find a short, much more informal message, from Kyoya’s mother: _Haruhi, dear: Kyoya would like you to call him when you’ve read this, please, no matter what time_ , she’s written, and signed it with her first name. The last four words are underlined.

 _Oh_ , Haruhi thinks, feeling all the breath knocked out of her. If Kyoya wants her to call him, then at least that means he knows about this mess, even if . . . Another, all too plausible thought hits her. Even if he’s making an appearance of going along with this, just because his parents want him to.

Haruhi’s never dreamed before of running away to sea and becoming a pirate, but faced with the prospect of speaking to Kyoya it suddenly seems an appealing option. Still, if she doesn’t talk to Kyoya, and she doesn’t become a pirate, the only thing left is apparently an impromptu heart to heart to her father, and she finds she doesn’t much want to do that either. So, she picks up her phone, takes a very deep breath, and dials.

The phone takes a while to connect, and when it does, the dial tone is strange. Haruhi fidgets, on edge, and half suspecting that the phone will go straight to voicemail.

“Haruhi?” Kyoya says though, and her nerves all fire at once, making her face flush with burning heat. It’s a good job he can’t see her. “Are you – can you hear me all right?” He sounds echoey and distant.

Haruhi swallows hard. “Yes. Where are you?” she manages.

“Somewhere above the arctic, I think. I’m on a plane,” he adds redundantly after a short pause. “Sorry if the line’s not great. The technology that lets me make calls while I’m in the air is still fairly new.”

There doesn’t seem to be much she can say in response to that, so she doesn’t. She just bites her lip and tries to remember how to breathe. It’s surprisingly difficult.

“Will you see me?” he asks abruptly, after the silence stretches into painfulness. “For the . . .” He doesn’t seem to be able to say the word.

“I apologise that your parents seem to think this necessary,” Haruhi says flatly. She’s too tired to go along with any nonsense, and it suddenly seems unbearable that she should be forced to.

“What?” he asks, a note of alarm in his voice. “No, it’s not like that. Fuck – I didn’t think you’d—” She can hear him take a deep breath. “This was my idea,” he says, quiet and firm. “Will you be kind enough to come on Saturday?”

“Why?” Haruhi asks, and she doesn’t like how it sounds – small and vulnerable. She feels like that, but she doesn’t want him to _know_ it. She experiences a flash of anger, raw and unexpected. Does he even realise how much he’s hurt her? It’s not the rejection so much – she thinks she could get over that. It’s the . . . _completeness_ of it. That he would cut her out of his life entirely on the strength of her feelings, as if their friendship now meant less than nothing.

She knows she hurt Tamaki badly when she rejected him; she’s not stupid. But she can’t imagine not being his friend on the strength of it. She can’t imagine not being his friend at all. That Kyoya would react so differently . . . She still can’t understand it. 

“Why?” he repeats. “Well, because . . .” He trails off, and she’s suddenly aware that _he_ sounds small and vulnerable too. Uncertain, in a way he never is. “Because it’s not going to be much of a grand gesture if you’re not there to see it,” he says awkwardly, and then makes a noise of pure frustration. “This is all coming out wrong. I don’t want to talk about it on the phone and make things even worse. I want to apologise, and tell you how I plan to spend the rest of my fucking _life_ making up for what I’ve put you through, if you’ll give me the chance, and—” He laughs, shakily. “I mean. What I meant to say . . . I’d like to talk to you face to face, Haruhi. If you don’t mind. Will you come on Saturday? Please?”

Grand gesture. The image of Tamaki astride an elephant flashes into her mind with irresistible force. “Yes, all right, even if there’s not an elephant,” Haruhi says for some reason, as if her mouth isn’t connected to her brain.

Kyoya laughs, but it’s a startled one. “I mean, I’m sure I could arrange one if it’s a deal-breaker?” he says, sounding a fraction more like himself.

“No, it’s all right,” Haruhi says, resisting the urge to thump her head back against the wall.

“I really am sorry. Thank you for agreeing to consider me,” he says, very quietly. “I’ll see you on Saturday, then?”

 _Thank you for agreeing to consider me._ Haruhi feels a rush of emotion so powerful she can hardly bear it. He’s waiting for an answer, but she’s lost the power of speech. “Yes,” she finally manages to squeak out, and then hangs up in a panic, pressing her hands over her mouth and trying desperately not to cry. She doesn’t want to cry. She feels . . . She doesn’t know what she feels. Kind of panicked. Angry, if she thinks about it. And under it all, a shimmering, golden happiness that she doesn’t dare let out yet, just in case.

When she’s got herself back under control, she considers what to do next. It’s tempting to just turn the light off and make herself go to sleep. It’s late now, and she feels tired and shaky, as exhausted as if she’s just run a 10k race. But her father is undoubtedly still waiting outside, and she thinks if she doesn’t talk about this to _someone_ she might burst.

As she expected, he is, indeed, there – but he’s now sitting cross-legged in front of her mother’s shrine. He looks up when he sees her, and for once she can’t read his expression.

“I said yes,” she tells him.

His eyes go very wide.

“To the _meeting_!” she clarifies quickly, seeing wedding bells ringing in his expression.

Her father’s eyebrows draw together. “I only didn’t punch him earlier today because he was on a video screen,” he says firmly. “I can work my way up to it on Saturday, if you need me to?”

Haruhi . . . hadn’t realised her father had spoken to Kyoya as well as his parents. It seems embarrassingly obvious in hindsight now. To cover her blushes, she hands him back the envelope. “Please will you return this private information to the Ootoris. I don’t need to see it to . . .” It suddenly seems embarrassing. “To make a decision,” she manages.

Her father smiles and tucks it behind her mother's photo. “Let’s leave it for Kotoko to read,” he says, and just as Haruhi starts to feel emotional at this, adds cheerfully, “and don’t worry, if you have any questions, I’ve already gone through it all twice.”

At her look of horror, he pouts, wagging his finger at her. “It’s important for a father to know the full background of a potential suitor for his daughter,” he says, before his pout morphs into a cheerful grin. “So, of course, I’ve known everything I needed to about Kyoya for ages already. This file is just a wonderful source of future pranks and blackmail!”

Haruhi bites her tongue – and holds out her hand. “Give it back,” she orders.

“He’s very rich,” her father says dreamily as he retrieves the envelope and hands it over. “And very handsome, and healthy, and charming, and clever. But –” his eyebrows draw together – “none of that matters if you’re not certain of your feelings for him . . . or of his for you.” His face shining so brightly with earnestness that Haruhi finds it hard to keep looking at him. “Ah, my clever, level-headed girl . . . you do know that the right decision isn’t always the sensible one, don’t you?”

Haruhi manages a nod. She’s never embarrassed by her father . . . but there’s something exquisitely embarrassing about _this_ , anyway. She wonders, briefly, what it might be like to have family and friends who don’t endlessly interfere in every aspect of her life, no matter how personal, but it’s kind of pointless. She’s saddled with the ones she has. That’s not the right way of putting it, though, is it? She’s not _just_ saddled – she’s also blessed.

“Good,” her father says, and sighs wistfully. “Ah, but Haruhi, I still want so badly to punch him!”

Haruhi . . . can empathise. “Probably best if you try not to,” she says anyway. And because she thinks it might feel more real if she says it out loud, she does. “On the off-chance he then becomes your son-in-law.”

Her dad turns to the shrine and clasps his hands in prayer. “Kotoko, please give me the strength not to kill this horrible young man who wants to steal my daughter from me,” he says pathetically.

It’s ridiculous, but it’s the kind of ridiculousness from her father she’s well used to, and somehow it makes her feel better to hear him say it. Still. “Stop bothering Mother with your nonsense and go to bed,” Haruhi says sternly, but doesn’t try to escape when her dad traps her in a hug that threatens to suffocate her.

She doesn’t think she’ll be able to sleep when she finally manages to extract herself and go to bed, but for the first time in weeks she’s off as soon as her head hits the pillow.


	14. Someone to be proud of

Kyoya wakes groggily and for a few delirious moments he’s not sure exactly where he is. But as his brain begins to switch on, the fuzzy shapes begin to make sense. Over there is the enormous window of his childhood bedroom. The distant blur of the clock on the wall. And over _here_ – much too close – is the familiar blond head of—

“Argh,” Kyoya says, making an attempt to push Tamaki off his bed.

Tamaki flails and resists. “Would you greet Haruhi like that?” he complains.

Kyoya’s not awake enough for this, but it seems an excellent way of getting rid of Tamaki, so he decides to go with it. He pulls Tamaki in close, puckering up, and Tamaki squeals and starts to laugh, so hard that Kyoya starts too.

“I’m glad you’re back,” Tamaki says cheerfully when Kyoya’s admitted defeat. Tamaki’s lying on his arm, head tucked up against his own. It’s a bit weird, but at the same time, Kyoya can’t really say he minds. “You never answer your phone, you terrible excuse for a person. Now I can tell you off properly.”

Ah, Kyoya thinks. It’s not a friendly hug – it’s a trap. “How did you know I’d come home?” he asks evenly. He feels at a distinct disadvantage, in his pyjamas and without his glasses on. If this was anyone other than Tamaki, he’d suppose that was the idea. It’s not, though, he thinks, struck, not for the first time, how very lucky he is to have a friend like him.

“Fuyumi told me,” Tamaki says, and Kyoya makes a mental note to kill her. Or possibly thank her. Right now, he can’t decide. “She also told me all about your brilliant, romantic, _wonderful_ omiai plan,” Tamaki adds, much too brightly.

Definitely kill her, Kyoya thinks, squeezing his eyes shut.

“I’m going to help,” Tamaki says firmly.

“You’re _not_ ,” Kyoya says.

Tamaki ignores him, though. “We’re _all_ going to help. But it’s on the understanding that if you hurt Haruhi again, I’m actually going to have to beat you up.”

Kyoya thinks about this. “Hani and Mori might do a better job,” he says mildly.

Tamaki pushes himself up on to one elbow. “Don’t _joke_ ,” he says sternly. “This isn’t a joke!”

No, Kyoya supposes, it’s not. “I . . .” he says, and then finds he doesn’t want to explain. Possibly not ever, but definitely not before he’s spoken to Haruhi. Everyone knows he’s been stupid, but as far as he’s concerned, she’s the only one who needs – who _deserves_ – to hear the details.

Tamaki seems to read him far too easily. “You don’t need to explain yourself to me unless you want to,” he says. “But can I ask you one thing?”

It’s going to be terrible, Kyoya thinks. But, “Yes, all right,” he says cautiously.

“On Saturday – are you going to ask Haruhi to marry you?”

The question _is_ terrible. Not because it’s hard to answer – but because of who’s asking it. Tamaki is too nice for his own good, Kyoya thinks heavily. But putting it off won’t help. So: “Yes,” he says.

Tamaki is silent for a moment, but then he smiles – wide and bright and, even to Kyoya’s poor eyesight, reassuringly genuine. “Good!” he says alarmingly. “Because I’ve already started writing your proposal speech.”

* * *

The doorbell rings at seven a.m. on Saturday, even though Haruhi isn’t due at the Ootoris’ till one. Still, Haruhi supposes as she peers cautiously round the door to check she’s not showing a stranger her favourite pyjamas, it could have been worse. Mei had wanted to come at six; seven was apparently the compromise. She’s grateful for her friend’s care, even if she’d rather have just had an extra hour in bed.

Mei pushes past her, swinging the door wide to reveal . . . Hikaru and Kaoru.

For a frozen moment, they all stare at each other. Then: “Nice pyjamas,” Hikaru says with a snigger, and Haruhi shuts the door on both – now grinning – twins.

She turns to Mei with vengeance in her eyes. At least – she gives it a go. It’s hard to look properly vengeful, she thinks, when you’re wearing Hello Kitty jim-jams and you haven’t brushed your hair. She half wishes she was still wearing her glasses for extra evil intensity, but it’s too late, she’s already put her contacts in.

“What!” Mei says with an eye roll. “You look cute.”

Haruhi continues with the vengeance-stare. Mei has a thick skull, but it’s got to get through at some point, right?

“Oh, you mean why are Kaoru and Hikaru here? Well, we _need_ them,” Mei says, without apparent shame. She slides off her shoes and stalks off to the bathroom, returning with Haruhi’s bathrobe. “Chuck it on, and we’ll get started. You can’t leave them out there forever.”

Haruhi thinks she jolly well _can_ leave them out there forever, but she puts the bathrobe on anyway. In no time at all, the twins are staring into her wardrobe with matching expressions of disdain.

“She could wear the suit we made her?” Mei muses.

“I’m not going to a job interview!” Haruhi protests.

“Well, in a sense . . .” Kaoru says gravely, and then grins at her. “Kidding, kidding! It’s _Kyoya_ who’ll be feeling like he’s going to a job—”

Mei flicks him on the ear. “Shut up, idiot,” she says. “OK, then how about this?” she says, pulling out one of her father’s most feminine, frilly choices.

Haruhi wrinkles her nose. “I’m not sure I want to look like a fairy.”

“ _We_ want you to look like a fairy!” Hikaru says, and then dodges when Mei turns his way.

After threatening to go in her pyjamas, Haruhi ends up wearing what she was going to wear anyway: normal clothes in which she will, she thinks, look like a normal Haruhi. After all, it’s best to start as you mean to go on. She lets Mei do her hair – by which she means brush it – and then she’s ready and can get down to the serious business of being nervous.

At least, she thinks as she listens quietly to the twins bicker with Mei, her friends being there is a distraction. It’s more than a little awkward that they know what’s happening today, but it’s not like she expected anything different. In fact, she’s been surprised by how much they’ve all left her alone over the past few days. She tries not to think that that’s because they’ve been constantly at Kyoya’s . . . talking about her and plotting things. In any case, she’s spent the last few days busy with the important task of wishing time would hurry up so she can get Saturday over with. Now it’s actually here, she regrets that a little bit.

“Wow, you look even prettier than Haruhi!” Mei says unhelpfully to her father, when he finally emerges from his bedroom just a few minutes before they’re due to leave.

Ranka smiles and twirls, before clearing his throat and doing a poor job of rejecting this compliment. “Ready?” he then says to Haruhi.

_No_ , Haruhi thinks, even as she says, “Yes.”

The Hitachiins’ car is still outside, and they all pile in – and then all out again when the car pulls up outside the Ootori mansion. Haruhi gives Mei a hard stare, but Mei doesn’t seem to notice, so she tries it on Kaoru instead.

“What?” he says. “We’re invited too.”

“Kyoya-senpai said he wouldn’t throw us out, at least,” Hikaru says breezily. “Which is basically the same thing.”

It’s not the same thing _at all_ , Haruhi thinks, but since they’re ringing the front doorbell, she’s too busy containing her rising terror to be able to point it out.

It’s very noisy inside. Fuyumi sweeps her in, and Akito rushes to take her coat, with Yuichi hovering somewhere behind him. Mr and Mrs Ootori say hello, she’s sure of it, but she can’t pay attention. Hani is already pulling her by the hand into a part of the house she’s never been before, even as Mori is trying to stop him with a mouthed, “Sorry,” and it’s all a jumble of people talking, and hallways, and laughter, and—

Silence, despite everything, as she turns the corner into a huge, open-plan kitchen and sees Kyoya again for the first time.

For a moment, he doesn’t notice her. He’s leaning against a kitchen island, his finger tracing the page of a cookbook she recognises . . . because she made it for him. But when Hani cheerfully says, “Kyoya, Haru-chan is here!” he starts visibly, and turns to face her.

His hair, she notices, is more untidy than usual, and there’s a smear of something on his cheek.

He takes a step towards her, and then doesn’t seem to know what to do next. “It’s . . . I . . . Thank you for coming,” he says finally, and does further damage to his hair.

“Is something burning?” Mori says gravely as he rounds the corner.

At least it’s something to talk about, Haruhi thinks, looking on the bright side as Kyoya dashes to rescue the food. It smells OK to her, anyway – happy, familiar scents she associates with home. She closes her eyes and breathes in. “What are you cooking?”

“Oh,” Kyoya says. “Nothing complicated. Just a seafood udon hotpot. At least,” he says with a half-smile, “it didn’t seem complicated when I cooked it at Mrs Tachibana’s a couple of months ago.”

“You probably weren’t cooking it for so many people,” Haruhi points out.

“I hadn’t exactly planned to now,” Kyoya replies with mixed amusement and resignation. “Sorry about all this.”

Haruhi smiles before she can stop herself. Not that she doesn’t want to smile, exactly, but as soon as she does, Kyoya just . . . looks at her, kind of helpless, as if he’s never seen anything like it before, and then she’s blushing, and that’s _terrible_. Especially when she looks round, to see what appears to be everyone in the whole world watching them, apart from Kyoya’s parents and her dad. They all swivel nonchalantly away apart from Hani, who beams and gives her a little wave.

“Can I help?” Haruhi asks Kyoya, turning her back on the irritating sods.

The look Kyoya gives her is very, very warm. “Only if you’d like to,” he says though.

Haruhi would like to. It’s peaceful standing next to Kyoya, chopping spinach and mitsuba, for all her jangling nerves. Well, it’s peaceful for all of five seconds, anyway, before the host club all come up also demanding jobs. In the end, she suspects the simple meal takes far longer to prepare than it would without so many people ‘helping’, but at the same time she doesn’t really mind. It’s odd, being with Kyoya like this, but it’s much less uncomfortable than she’d feared, and she suspects that’s down to all their friends.

When the food’s ready, Kyoya guides her to a seat in the nearby dining room. It’s a fancy room, but all Haruhi can see for a moment is what’s in pride of place at the centre of the table: her tiny, wild Bonsai weed.

After she’s taken this in, she sees the table is already set for lunch with elegant place settings: chopsticks, spoons, napkins . . . and, hiding by her water glass, a tiny blue – and adorably wonky – origami elephant.

“You did say you wanted an elephant,” Kyoya says self-consciously as she picks it up and balances it on her hand. “I, uh, learned how to do it on YouTube. As I discovered to my peril, origami is harder than it looks.”

It’s cute, Haruhi thinks. And then follows it up with another, more embarrassing thought about Kyoya: _you’re_ cute. “Thank you,” she says, and he smiles and dashes off to make sure Hikaru and Kaoru don’t drop the enormous cooking pot. She can hear them all quarrelling, even from the other room.

Mei leans across from the far end of the table and mouths, very exaggerated, “How’s it going?”

“A little hard to tell,” Haruhi says, as she sees Tamaki also lean in precariously out of the corner of her eye. “Maybe if you all went away . . .?”

Tamaki falls off his chair, just as Kyoya and the others return with the food, neatly stepping over Tamaki’s corpse to place the pot on the table.

“I hope you don’t mind that we’re so informal,” Mrs Ootori says to Haruhi and her father once everyone is seated and has their food. “We have our own chef, but Kyoya insisted.”

Haruhi smells the food she’s so often cooked before, from the recipe with the few precious amendments written in her mother’s hand, and – for the first time in what feels like a very long while – feels properly happy. “It’s lovely,” she says, and feels, rather than sees, Kyoya smile at her from his place beside her.

The meal is both delicious and . . . really, really awkward. Haruhi eats, as Mr and Mrs Ootori talk in excruciating detail about Kyoya’s talents and achievements. Every time she thinks there might be some respite – she can practically _hear_ Kyoya cringing, even though he doesn’t say anything – her father asks a question that sets them off again. And just when she thinks it’s finally over, Kyoya’s brothers and sisters – and then the host club – all join in for an enthusiastic round two.

“I think they think they’re helping,” Kyoya says calmly when everyone’s finished eating, and Tamaki’s regaling the table with a rambling anecdote that Haruhi already knows, given that she was actually there. “I really am sorry.”

Haruhi looks over, to find that although Kyoya might have technically finished eating, he’s barely touched his food. “I—”

“We _are_ helping!” Tamaki interrupts cheerfully. “We don’t need to persuade you about how wonderful Haruhi is, Kyoya. We need to persuade _Haruhi_ that she wants to marry— Mffff!” Tamaki continues, as Mei and Hikaru attempt to simultaneously shove a napkin in his mouth and pull off his head.

Kyoya clears his throat. “Mother, Father, Ranka – please excuse us,” he says, and gets to his feet, Haruhi rising to follow shortly after, after an encouraging prod from Fuyumi on her other side.

Her nerves are back again – spikey and hot – as he leads her through the house, pausing in the hallway. “I thought we could take a walk in the garden,” he says, looking at her ear rather than her face. “If that’s all right with you?”

Haruhi nods, and Kyoya vanishes briefly, returning with an armful of coats. She neatly plucks hers from his arms before he can try to help her into it; she feels awkward enough as it is.

“Right,” he says, quiet and cool, and leads the way to the back of the house and out.

The garden is . . . more like a park, Haruhi thinks, the ridiculousness of it helping to cut through her nerves. Tall trees block out the view of any neighbouring houses, and the path curves out into the distance, so far away she can’t tell where it ends.

“Let’s . . . walk a little further away from the house,” Kyoya says thoughtfully.

Haruhi glances back at the Ootori mansion, with its floor to ceiling windows, and heartily agrees.

It’s pleasant, anyway, walking in companionable silence with Kyoya down the flowing gravel path. The winter sunshine is warm, toasting her exposed face and fingers, and she can barely hear traffic above the sound of birdsong. Nature in the heart of a city. She likes it – and oh how _much_ she likes the tall, reserved man walking beside her too.

The path curves round a gentle bend, passing a lake and heading towards a large pavilion with a long bench outside. “Let’s sit for a while,” Kyoya says casually, and then seems to speed up, as if he too is keen to get this ordeal over with.

Because it _is_ an ordeal, she thinks, suddenly tangled up again in her emotions, her heart beating much too hard. Not just for him – but for her. The hurt she felt for the cold way he rejected her rises up again, casting a grey pall over the beautiful view. She wants to forgive him so badly – but right now she doesn’t really know what she’s meant to be forgiving him _for_. It’s not like he was rude, or insulting. It wasn’t _his_ fault she’d somehow, accidentally, put him at the centre of her entire world.

“Haruhi,” Kyoya says very quietly once they’re both sitting down, “what sort of man do you see yourself marrying?”

The unexpected nature of this question sends colour shooting violently to her face. “What do you mean?”

He half turns to look at her, his expression calm. “Exactly what I asked.”

Haruhi’s mind goes blank for a while, as her thoughts dance and refuse to settle. Kyoya’s parents . . . that file of private information . . . all of that stuff is important, she thinks, but not essential. She doesn’t want someone rich – she wants someone who’ll work hard to keep his family afloat. Someone she can rely on when times are hard. Someone who . . . “I want someone I can be proud of,” she says eventually. “Who I can trust to always do his best, and who’ll be proud of me too.”

She thinks of her mother and father, and how dearly her father still loves his Kotoko. How much his eyes light up when he talks about her, the woman who chose him, even though her whole family said no. “I want someone who’ll love me as much as my father loves my mother,” she says quietly. It’s a little weird as a yardstick, perhaps, but she doesn’t care. “That’s all that’s important, really, in the end.”

Kyoya doesn’t say anything for a while, but he reaches out and takes her hand. His fingers are cold, and she can feel him trembling. He’s not trying to hide it.

“What kind of woman do you want to marry?” Haruhi finally forces herself to ask. She thinks he’s waiting for it, but even so, a flood of colour rises up his neck, to paint his face in crimson. She doesn’t mind; she thinks she’s probably the exact same shade.

“Well . . .” he says quietly, “I want someone who’ll bring merit to my family.”

Haruhi feels a dull sensation settle on her, but Kyoya squeezes her hand very tight.

“I need someone calm and unflappable, who’s a natural at winning people over, whether that’s my personal staff, my friends or my – or hopefully _our_ – colleagues and clients. Someone who can handle ridiculous idiots like Tamaki as well as they can handle my father. Someone who’s as clever as me, if not more so, so she can assist me in all my schemes – and so I can assist her in _hers_. Who’s hardworking. Who has her own ambitions, even if they don’t neatly line up with mine. Who—”

He takes a shaky breath, shifting on the bench so he can turn to see her better. “And most importantly, I need someone who can forgive me for being such an idiot,” he says, so fast it’s almost garbled. “Because I am _so, so_ sorry. Just to be clear, Haruhi,” he adds, looking at her with fierce, dark eyes, “I’m talking about _you_. I will _never_ not be proud of you. I will . . . I will never love anyone or anything more than I love you.”

Haruhi’s not crying. She’s just letting water flow from her eyes. “Then why did you . . .?” she manages, but can’t go on.

Kyoya doesn’t flinch from it. “It’s difficult to explain without sounding like I’m making excuses,” he says quietly. “I think . . . Haruhi, if it’s not obvious, ever since I’ve known you, I’ve always been in love with you. I just didn’t think it was necessary to admit it to myself, let alone do anything about it. Tamaki . . .” He sighs, and Haruhi feels a mutual awkwardness flourish between them that’s nothing to do with the fact she’s _still_ _crying_ , just a little bit. “I knew he loved you, and I thought that you would eventually fall in love with him too,” Kyoya continues, looking away. “So when we started getting closer, I . . . I suppose I let my guard down, as it didn’t seem likely you would ever reciprocate my feelings.”

“That’s—” Haruhi starts.

“Stupid, yes,” Kyoya interrupts, pulling a face. “I’m well aware. But . . .” He hesitates. “I didn’t want to be in love with you. I wanted you to like Tamaki, and I . . . I didn’t think you would fit in with my grand plans of becoming my father’s heir. I thought . . .” He shrugs uncomfortably. “My father married Yuichi and Fuyumi off strategically, and he’s planning the same for Akito. I barely considered that I had other options. And then my father invited me on his New Year tour of all the Ootori hospitals, and I felt like I was finally on the verge of being chosen for something I’ve been working so tirelessly for, and then . . .”

He finally turns back to look at her, his face pinched. “I am ashamed of myself,” he says quietly. “I was ashamed then, and I am ashamed now. I couldn’t stay friends with you after I’d made a decision that reflected so badly on my character – I didn’t think I deserved your friendship.”

It’s . . . painful, Haruhi thinks, and hardly flattering to be told he chose his ambitions over her. But she also feels a release of tension, as if there’s been a metal band around her forehead and someone has just cut it off. He’s always been in love with her. Somehow, that lessens the sting.

“And then I realised I didn’t even know if I _wanted_ to be my father’s heir,” Kyoya says in a rush. “And when I told my father I was going to ask you— I mean, when I told him how I felt about you, he acted as if it was _obvious_ I was going to – that is to say . . .” He gives an awkward half smile. “That would be skipping a few slides in the presentation. I’ll get to that part in a while.”

He . . . told his father, Haruhi thinks, picking that out of the jumble that’s streaming from Kyoya’s mouth. It’s the smallest of rebellions, really, from her perspective, but considered from that of a loyal, ambitious Ootori third son . . . “You don’t _really_ have a PowerPoint, do you?” she manages, rooting in her coat pocket for a tissue to wipe her eyes.

“No, it’s a Google Slides deck,” he says solemnly, and then smiles at her, so soft and heartfelt that it buries its way right into her chest. “I don’t know what I was thinking, really, only that I panicked and made a decision so stupid that I was the only one who couldn’t see it. I really am so very sorry,” he says, and then bows his head very low. “I hope you can forgive me.”

The garden feels very warm now, the sunshine bright, reflecting on the sparkling water. Kyoya’s hand is warm in hers, and although the hurts of the previous weeks are still there, they feel softer now, blurring into memory as she focuses on her breathing. He loves her, she thinks. He’s _always_ loved her. And despite his complicated feelings about his family, in the end he was willing to stand up to his father over her. That it turned out he didn’t need to . . . well, it doesn’t make a difference, as far as she’s concerned. It’s a quiet gesture rather than a grand one, but for Haruhi, it feels more than enough.

And . . . and he made her an elephant, she thinks ridiculously. She asked him for something stupid – and he didn’t question it, just fulfilled her request in a small, and somehow unbearably charming, way.

So she smiles at him, watching his tense expression clear as she does so, and says, “Of course I can.”

* * *

It’s odd, Kyoya thinks vaguely as he sits next to Haruhi, trying to remember what he’d planned to say next. He’d thought that telling her what made him reject her confession – putting his stupidity into actual words he’d have to say _out loud_ – would be the hard part, and that if she was willing to forgive him, the rest would be easy.

This is . . . _not_ easy, he thinks, resisting the urge to do something uncharacteristic, like run away and hide behind a plant pot. There’s a nice one, just over there – an enormous recreation of a Greek urn. Maybe if he’s fast enough, Haruhi won’t notice until it’s too late.

He thinks she’s expecting him to propose, which should technically make it easier, but then again it’s entirely possible that she’s not. He has, after all, invited her to an omiai when he already knows her, and then allowed all their friends to come along too. It’s hardly traditional, and it’s not exactly romantic, either. He doesn’t know how he could have avoided it – Tamaki is an unstoppable force at times, and Kyoya rarely finds he wants, or needs, to object – but he can see how it might be confusing.

This line of thought is deeply unhelpful, he considers, but can’t stop himself from dwelling on it anyway. How should he start? Tamaki wrote him a speech – he has the note cards Tamaki forced on him in his pocket – and he’s almost tempted to get them out, just to see what kind of face Haruhi would make.

“Kyoya . . .?” Haruhi says tentatively, and _oh_ , it’s wonderful to hear her use his first name like that. So wonderful he can’t speak for a moment. Not that he was exactly having great success before.

He has to speak, he thinks – he has to ask her _now_. He’s driving himself mad. So he stops trying to think of something poetic, or charming, or romantic to say, and he takes a deep breath and: “May I ask you something?” he says.

Haruhi wets her lips. “Yes,” she says faintly.

“I was wondering if – I was _hoping_ – I . . . Haruhi, will you marry me?”

Her eyes are enormous, and he finds he can’t leave a pause in case she says no. “It – it can be a long engagement,” he stammers. “If you would consider it. I thought I would finish the year at Harvard, and then I could transfer to a Tokyo university for the rest of my degree if you didn’t want to move to America. Or Harvard has an excellent law school you could consider – I know the application deadline has passed, but I’m afraid I could easily pull a few strings, or you could defer your start until next year.”

He’s aware he’s babbling, but he just can’t _stop_. There’s a good chance that she’s going to point out that this is all too fast, and normal people go on dates first. They kiss. And, if they’re particularly modern, they even live together for a while. He _wants_ all that. Dating, and kissing, and living together. He’s just aware of an overwhelming desire to make sure, by any means possible, that she’ll still be _his_ at the end of it.

“And I want to make it clear that although you’d be an Ootori,” he says, hating how pompous that sounds, even as the idea of it fills him with a longing so strong he feels almost dizzy with it, “I would support your career, even if that was outside the family business. I mean, I might end up working outside of the Ootori Group anyway, and the last thing I want to do is stifle your ambition, and—”

She puts a hand on his arm, and he finally manages to make himself stop talking. He’s gone past embarrassment, he thinks faintly, and into a kind of other dimension that’s not exactly calm and peaceful, but is at least a bit more restful.

“Why do you want to marry me?” she asks. She’s turned a bit red, and she’s frowning, but in thought rather than dissatisfaction if he’s any judge.

Why . . .? He doesn’t understand, for a moment, and then he does. He’s led with practicalities, rather than feelings, he supposes. They seem the most self-explanatory part of the whole business now he’s already confessed, and he feels curiously ill-equipped to explain himself any further.

The thought of Tamaki’s prepared speech flashes seductively in his mind once more, but he’s already read it. It’s flowery and emotional and metaphorical, and entirely worthy of the host club king. It’s not really very _him_ though – and he doesn’t think it’s very Haruhi either. So he reaches for the truth, and finds it’s easy to say exactly how he feels after all.

“Because I love you so much I can’t live without you for a moment longer,” he says, and then presses his lips together tight against the urge to fill the silence with more babble. He’s shaking so hard it’s really quite mortifying, he thinks, but there’s not much he can do about it, so he decides to just let the feeling go.

It’s freeing, really. He’s used to being calm and quiet and in control, but this is the most nervous he’s ever been in his entire life.

Haruhi looks . . . very Haruhi-like, he thinks nonsensically when he manages to force himself to meet her eye. Calm as ever, despite her pink cheeks and red-tinged eyes, even as he is falling apart.

She wets her lips and looks away, and for a moment Kyoya’s whole being sinks into his shoes, until she looks back, and her expression is . . .

He feels sick, and excited, all at once: a passenger on a rollercoaster that’s just climbed a near-vertical hill and is teetering on the brink, about to plummet.

“Yes, then,” Haruhi says. “Yes, all right.”

It takes him longer than it should to process this, his brain scrambling to catch up. She seems taken aback too, and for a long moment they stare at each other, Kyoya’s heart hammering faster than it’s ever beaten before.

And then it hits him. She just said _yes_. He’s not sure what his face is doing, but it’s clearly doing _something_ because she starts to smile, and it just gets wider and wider, her face blossoming into something so warm and wonderful that he doesn’t know what to do with himself, thrown off balance in a way that’s utterly alien and yet profoundly wonderful all at once.

If he was Tamaki, he’d tell her he’d loved her from the moment he was born. He’d tell her she was the most beautiful woman in the world. He’d tell her he’d give up everything for her – his wealth, his family, his ambitions.

If he was Tamaki, he supposes, he’d have arranged for an orchestra to pop out and play. Or a troop of dancing – non origami – elephants. Or – or a celebratory firework display.

He’s not Tamaki, though.

He found Haruhi mildly intriguing, at best, the first time he met her, even though his feelings quickly slid into something much, much warmer.

He thinks she’s beautiful _now_ , yes, but it’s his affection for her that gives her face that extra shine.

And although he might potentially give up everything, he doesn’t think a long list of all the specific circumstances in which he’d consider it would be useful right now – and besides, he doesn’t have to, so he’d really rather not.

She is not the kind of woman he’d planned for himself. He’d thought it was a drawback, until he found it wasn’t. But now, as he looks at her, he finds he can’t summon up even an atom of disappointment or regret about that – he just feels dizzyingly, overwhelmingly glad.

“Kyoya, you do realise this is crazy, don’t you?” Haruhi says, her eyes crinkling with life.

“Is it?” he asks, and reaches out with his free hand to – very gently – stroke her hair.

She goes pleasing red. “Yes!” she says. “I mean, we haven’t even been on a proper date!”

“How disappointing that you don’t remember our romantic encounter with the buck-toothed mechanical bears,” he says with mock disappointment.

She starts to laugh, almost helplessly. “I don’t think that counts!”

“Or that time you forced yourself to miserably eat curry for breakfast,” he says mildly in response.

“I _knew_ you thought that was weird,” she says, still laughing.

“Or how about when we dodged Tamaki’s mistletoe while wearing truly dreadful festive outfits, stuffed to the gills with inferior fried chicken,” he suggests.

She stops laughing, though her smile is still very bright. “I . . . wouldn’t have objected if you’d kissed me then, you know.”

Kyoya’s spent a very long trying not to want to kiss Haruhi. The thought that now he _can_. . .

Even as he thinks it though, he remembers _another_ thing he hasn’t done. “Oh fuck!” he says, before he can hold it back, and then winces. “Excuse my language,” he adds politely as he starts to pat down his coat, and finally lands on the pocket with the small box he can’t quite believe he’s forgotten. “I . . . this is for you,” he says as he hastily slides down on to his knees before her, holding his breath as he opens it up and shows her the ring inside.

It’s small and simple – a sparkling shard of impossible brightness on a plain band – and for some reason he feels compelled to start babbling again. “Tamaki helped me choose it,” he says as she looks at it. “So I suppose we should both be grateful it’s not a diamond in the shape of some kind of foodstuff.”

She smiles, and he thinks she’s crying a bit again, but he doesn’t think it’s gentlemanly to point it out. She holds out her hand and he slides the ring on, silently thanking Ranka for his help with making sure he got the right fit.

It looks perfect. _She_ is perfect.

He is, for a moment, strangely sorry that he _didn’t_ arrange a fireworks display, or a troop of dancing elephants. “I’ll fold you a whole _herd_ of elephants,” he promises ludicrously as her hand tightens around his own.

She takes this madness in her stride – but possibly only because he’s finally, _finally_ leaning in to kiss her.

He’d be amused by how overwhelmed he feels right now, if he wasn’t too busy trying not to drown in it. Her lips are warm and soft against his own as he presses a light kiss to her mouth, and she moves tentatively enough against him that he’s pretty sure she hasn’t done this before, her hands fluttering up to tangle in his hair.

It nearly kills him to pull away, but he doesn’t want to push it. But—

“I love you so much, Kyoya,” Haruhi says, sounding tipsy with happiness, before leaning in to kiss him . . .

. . . and it turns out there _is_ a fireworks display, after all.


End file.
